From The Ashes
by Wynter S. Komen
Summary: Tommy, fresh out of Fort Leavenworth, is on the road to rebuilding his life. He's ordered to seek six months of therapy, and it's next to impossible to find someone he connects with, who really gets him. When he meets Olivia Ortega, a licensed mental health therapist and soon-to-be Doctor of Psychology, he finds a connection he never expected. Rated M for the usual.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey guys! So, as I was writing my TMW story, happy as clam now that I just had the one to focus on, La Muse suddenly started her annoying, abusive shit and required me to write another Warrior story. So, as much as I don't prefer to do so, I'll be writing two stories side by side. I hope you guys like this one. Special shout-out to Nik216 and Mals86 for their input in getting this one off the ground. Love and kisses to you all. Read, enjoy, and review. Tell me whatcha think.**

**I own nothing from the film except my own OC.**

**Chapter 1**

_Civilian._

When the doors of Fort Leavenworth opened and released Thomas R. Conlon one year after his arrival, that was the only word that resounded through his brain. Not _free, _not _human again_, not _Jesus but the sun feels good._

_Civilian_. By way of dishonorable discharge as a result of his desertion.

Tommy's lips curled involuntarily into a mirthless smirk as he made his way toward the high wire gates of the Fort Leavenworth compound. He remembered that one kid from the brig – _Manzelli? Manzzito?_ – who had tried to help him make light of the ruling when it came down. "Fuck it, Tommy," he'd said. "If they wanna say it, they'll say it. Be it. You're a deserting deserter from McDesertion, Deserterville. Pleased to meet you."

What was funny was that in the old days, desertion – actual desertion, as in going AWOL with the intent to _neverevereverfuckinggoback_ – was a crime punishable by death. Granted, the last person to get dead for deserting was some poor bastard, some private, during World War II. Tommy almost would have welcomed that instead of spending a year at Leavenworth, stuck with himself, his thoughts, his guilt and his rage.

But thanks to his incredible defense attorney, the generally sympathetic jury of his peers and his CO, a man for whom Tommy had always had a great deal of respect, and the circumstances that made up his mindset at the time of his desertion, Tommy was "just" given a dishonorable discharge and all the goodies contained therein, and sentenced to one year in a maximum security military prison.

_One year_. He still couldn't believe it. _One_ year. It should have been life, if it wasn't going to be death.

It helped that just prior to his desertion he had witnessed the deaths of his entire unit by friendly fire, including his best friend in the entire world, Emanuel "Manny" Fernández. And it helped that just _after_ his desertion he had randomly stumbled upon a tank full of Marines that was sinking into a river. And he had saved every single life in that tank – he still didn't know how he'd managed it. He had ripped the door – _ripped _the door off a fucking _tank_ – and yanked them out, one at a time.

Apparently, that meant something to people.

"Riordan."

Tommy turned at the sound of his adopted name, seeing a guard approach him. He had something in his hand. He held it out to Tommy.

"It's Conlon now," Tommy muttered. Not that it mattered; he'd never see this guy again anyway.

"You left this in your bunk," the guard said, and Tommy saw that it was a photo of him and Manny, taken in the desert on a bright sunny day. If memory served, it had been snapped a few weeks before Manny's death. Tommy had left it behind on purpose because it hurt too much to look at.

He sighed and slowly reached a hand out to take it. He knew that it would have just gotten thrown away if he didn't. Leaving it behind in his bunk, he could at least pretend that maybe someone would see it and wonder what the story was, maybe keep it among their personal effects and take it home and make up some grand story to tell people about the snapshot of two brothers-in-arms while they were at war.

But now, looking down at his and Manny's grinning faces, he was forced to take it with him. He couldn't leave it behind, couldn't let it get tossed. There were memories in this single photo. Most of them hurt. Some of them could make him smile, or maybe they would be able to one day.

"Thanks," Tommy muttered, and shoved the photo in his pocket. He turned as the gate obeyed its electrical command and slid apart, and he sighed at the sight that was before him. It was a sight that he knew he would see, as he and his older brother Brendan had arranged it, but he couldn't have prepared himself for how it would feel.

Brendan stood on the other side of the gate, next to his rental car. His arms were folded across his chest and he wasn't smiling, but Tommy saw some intense emotion in his big brother's eyes. And despite the anger that still pumped through his veins and beat through his heart, Tommy felt his throat tighten against the tears that were threatening spill forth.

Fuck all the bullshit. This was Bren. This was Big Brother.

"Fuck it," he murmured to himself, and unconsciously began double-timing it toward his brother. He threw his single duffel bag on the ground just as Brendan reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders roughly, hauling him in close and tight for a bear hug.

Tommy wasn't sure how long they stood there like that, embracing like a couple of chumps. But part of him just didn't care. He was still angry with Brendan on some level, but dammit, it felt good to be hugged by his big brother. It was the first time he'd seen him in a year. Tommy had refused visitors, even Pop. He wanted to do his time – unjustly short, in his opinion – and get the hell out and get on with life. He didn't want visitors, he didn't want letters, he didn't want anything. Of course, that hadn't stopped letters from coming. Pop had written him anyway, and Brendan had sent a few letters with the drawings and little scrawled notes that his nieces had sent him. The letters he'd read once and put away, but he sheepishly found himself hanging up the pictures from two little girls he'd never even met, because they were so…wonderful. Happy pictures (some of which he admittedly couldn't decipher) and lots of scrawled "We miss Uncle Tommy" and "I love my Uncle Tommy" notes.

_Love _him? How? They'd never met him. Nevertheless it made him feel…_nice_ inside, and he liked looking at them, so he thought "to hell with it" and hung them up anyway. None of the other inmates would have said anything. This prison atmosphere was a little different than most. They were all hardwired as military men, and despite the offenses they had perpetrated, most of them still carried themselves with a certain level of military decorum. And many of them had their own child-created artwork on their cell walls, too.

"Come on, man," Brendan said finally as he pulled back, gripping Tommy's shoulder and wiping his eyes. "We better get going. Let's get you the hell out of here."

"Yeah, all right," Tommy said, and let Brendan pick up his duffel from the ground and toss it in the backseat. They would drive to the airport in Kansas City, and then from there fly back to Philadelphia. He realized in that moment that once he was back in Pennsylvania, he didn't have anywhere _to_ go. "You, uh – you takin' me to Pop's when we get back to PA?"

"Not tonight," Brendan replied. "I want you to stay at the house. In the guest room."

"I don't know, man," Tommy said, shaking his head. "I'm not sure your wife wants me there." Moreover, Tommy thought, he wasn't sure _he_ wanted to be around Brendan's wife.

"Tess and I talked about it," Brendan said, starting the car. "And you're staying, Tommy. That's it." He smiled at his little brother. "Bed's soft, room to yourself. Tess is an awesome cook. The girls are really excited to see you."

"See me," Tommy echoed. "Yeah. I guess."

The ride to the airport felt awkward, but Brendan kept up a steady chatter, filling Tommy in about his life while he'd been away. Brendan assured Tommy that he had sent Pilar one million dollars from his Sparta winnings, just as he'd promised he would. He and Tess had managed to save their house and take care of the rest of Rosie's hospital bills from her open-heart surgery. Things at the school had blown over, and Brendan had gotten his teaching job back.

"Must be the richest teacher in the world," Tommy muttered, not intending to say it out loud.

Brendan looked at him in surprise, then laughed. "I guess some people might look at it that way."

"You coulda retired with all that money," Tommy pointed out.

"I love teaching," Brendan said simply. "I never wanted to fight for a living. I only fought to save the house and get square on our bills."

"Hope you still got somethin' left to show for it," Tommy said.

Brendan nodded. "Made some investments, and I got a financial advisor. We're good." He glanced over at his younger brother again. "And so are you, Tommy."

Tommy swung his head around from where he'd been staring out the window. "What's that, now?"

Brendan shrugged and smiled. "While you were – away, I took the liberty of setting up a bank account for you, so you'd have something to come home to."

"Why?" Tommy asked suspiciously. "Why would you do that? You got better shit to spend that money on than me."

"Tommy, it belongs to you," Brendan said. "You more than earned it. Hell, I ripped your damn shoulder out of the socket, I owe you."

Tommy knew deep down that Brendan meant well, but the words hit him as a little condescending so he merely shrugged.

"I ain't takin' your money, man," he said quietly. "You can take it back."

"Well, I'm not doing that," Brendan replied. "So I guess that means you're keeping it."

_That's what you think_, Tommy thought, lapsing into silence and feeling annoyed. He knew he'd have to keep _some_ – he didn't have a penny to his name otherwise, and he had no benefits due to the dishonorable discharge he'd received. No benefits at all – nothing from the Marine Corps after ten years of service and two deployments, nothing for saving the lives of those Marines in that tank. Nothing but nothing.

He knew he had some serious life decisions to make, and on the flight back home to Pennsylvania he tried to think of them. He had always been handy with tools and a car; maybe he could see about some automotive classes at the community college. He'd always kind of had an entrepreneurial spirit – maybe he could start his own business or something. He was sort of left to that, anyway – no one wanted to hire someone – an _ex-con, _for Christ's sake – with a dishonorable discharge on their record. And what could he do? Explain that he'd received it because he was a deserting deserter from McDesertion, Deserterville?

_Civilian._

The word and its meaning, and its application to his person as he knew it now was absolutely crushing. The irony in it was that at one time, a "civilian" was all he wanted to be. He loved the Corps, and he loved his brothers, but when they were slaughtered right in front of him on that hideous day in Iraq, leaving him the only survivor, that love had died. It became as dead as they were.

And so, he had left. Deserted.

He supposed he'd known, deep down and all along, that one day he'd be found. That he had managed to fly under the radar for so long _still_ amazed him to this day. Looking back, he was pretty sure that he'd known that it was all over for him that night in the hotel room in Atlantic City, when Pop had come thundering on the door to his bedroom, exclaiming at him to "come here and look at this". When he'd stepped out and he'd seen that Marine, whose name he'd never known but whose face was and would be forever seared into his memory, on the evening news talking about his "heroics" and thanking him, and imploring anyone who knew Tommy Riordan to thank him on his behalf, he'd known it was all over.

He hadn't been at all surprised to see the MPs waiting for him that next night. He'd been surprised at his own lack of surprise at seeing them. And after the fight with Brendan, when his big brother helped him out of the ring, after dislocating Tommy's shoulder and making him tap out, he resigned himself to the knowledge of what was to come.

MP custody. Delivery to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Making himself at home in the United States Disciplinary Barracks. Court martial. Dishonorable discharge and being stripped of his rank and all privileges and benefits contained therein. Serving his one year of imprisonment. Being labeled a deserter.

Which he was.

_Deserting deserter from McDesertion, Deserterville,_ he thought, finally getting sleepy and leaning his head against the window. He thought long and hard – what the _hell_ was that kid's name?

_Mazzella. _That was it. _Mazzella. Hope you're resting well tonight, man. _

On the tail-end of that thought, Tommy wondered if he would, as well.

* * *

The combination of layovers and time changes meant that they didn't arrive at Brendan's house in Philadelphia until almost ten o'clock. And even though it was summer, which meant the kids were out of school, the girls apparently had special summertime activities they did each day to stay busy and have someplace to go when Tess and Brendan were both at work – Tess running the daycare she had long since dreamed of starting, and Brendan holding summer school classes and working out with the varsity boys' football team. Tommy found that a little bit laughable, since Brendan had always sucked at any sport outside wrestling and baseball, but apparently the school was short-staffed as far as coaches went, per Brendan's explanation to him, and based on his athleticism they had asked him to work out with the team and possibly accept the coach's position in the fall if they couldn't find a replacement.

So the girls would be in bed when he arrived tonight, and probably gone by the time Tommy was up and at 'em the next morning, which was okay with him. Because for all he was interested in seeing these nieces of his up close and in person, he was also okay with not doing the family thing right away. He just wanted to go to bed.

"We'll have to be quiet, since the girls are in bed," Brendan said unnecessarily as he pulled Tommy's duffel from the backset of his car, which he had left parked at the airport. "I know we had those subs at the last layover but you hungry, bro? I can fix you something to eat before you turn in?"

"No, thanks," Tommy said quickly. "I'm good."

Brendan nodded and then squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, then."

They walked through the garage to the door and Brendan hit the button to make the automatic door go down. He turned the knob and Tommy found himself walking into a kitchen, a big, warm kitchen that immediately screamed "family" at him.

He was so taken with soaking in the oak cabinets, the girly artwork on the refrigerator, the bowl of fresh fruit on the kitchen table, the array of appliances, everything so neat and home-y and nice that he almost didn't notice the petite, incredibly pretty blonde standing behind the island, watching them intently with a pair of huge blue eyes. He swallowed when he looked at her and saw that she was looking back at him in a measured, cautious way, like the way a person might look at a strange dog prowling around in the neighborhood.

"I guess you two have never been formally introduced since…well, junior high," Brendan said. "Tommy, this is my wife, Tessa. Tess, this is my little brother…Tommy."

It was meant to be an ice-breaker, and it sort of worked, because Tess half-grinned and huffed out a little breath, and Tommy felt the smallest, briefest smirk cross his face. Tess finally pulled in a breath and gave him a full smile, almost like she needed to work up her courage to do it, and Tommy saw that the corners of her mouth were punctuated with shallow dimples and her smile, revealing straight and perfect pearly whites, was wide, even, and genuine, if still a little cautious and shy.

"Hi, Tommy," she said, and her voice was throaty and low, with a little hint of bossy even in greeting. Then she came around the island and stood in front of him. "Welcome – welcome back." Awkwardly, she rested her hands lightly on each of his arms and gave a little squeeze before stepping back, and Tommy understood that was as close to a hug that he was going to get. Not that he necessarily was looking for one – really, even that little display of welcoming sisterly affection took him by surprise. Even though it had taken every ounce of willpower and self-control he possessed not to recoil from her touch just off of automatic reflex, it was…pleasant. And that was saying something, especially since he didn't do well with touching…not from strangers.

"Thank – thank you," he replied, clearing his suddenly stuck throat and bobbing his head. "I appreciate you letting me stay here."

"We couldn't have had it any other way," Tess said politely, and Tommy understood that what she really meant was, "_Brendan_ couldn't have had it any other way." But that was okay with him, too. He understood.

"I – thank you," he repeated.

Tess shifted her weight. "Do you, uh – do you want me to go wake up the girls to say hi? They were so excited all day, I thought they'd never get to sleep."

Again, Tommy picked up on what Tess was really telling him – that it had been hard work to get them to go to sleep due to their excitement and if they woke up _now_ they'd likely _never _get back to sleep, which meant _none _of them would – and this time he smiled for real. "It's okay," he said. "I wouldn't want to wake them up for me. I know you guys all have stuff to do – it's fine. I'll see them tomorrow."

"And I think he's pretty anxious to get to sleep, himself," Brendan chimed in, reaching out for the millionth time to squeeze Tommy's trap muscle. But touches from Brendan didn't make him want to recoil; they felt nice. Loving. Secure. Even though a teeny, tiny part of him still wanted to punch Brendan right in the face. Just once.

"Okay," Tess said, sounding relieved. "Um – we all clear out of here pretty early in the morning, Tommy, but feel free to sleep in as long as you want." She reached over and opened up the refrigerator. "I've got eggs, milk, juice, fruit, yogurt, turkey bacon. There's bread on the counter in the breadbox, there's bagels if you like those instead. English muffins. I've got cereal and oatmeal and Pop Tarts in the pantry, and the coffee maker is really simple to operate, the grounds are in the freezer, creamer's in the fridge –" She paused meditatively. "Have I left anything out?"

"Breathing, other than that, no," Tommy said, and surprised even himself with the little lame crack. "Food in places in the kitchen. Roger that. And I clean up after myself, so don't worry."

"I – thanks," Tess replied with a smile. "I appreciate that. Um – I get home with the girls around five, five-thirty. I start dinner after that. Brendan's schedule changes depending on which classes he's teaching but on Wednesdays he gets home sort of early. So you guys can, like, hang out and – stuff."

"Thanks, babe," Brendan said, leaning over to give her a kiss, and Tommy knew he was thanking her for more than just informing their new, temporary guest where everything was. Things were obviously tense between all three of them, and Tess probably knew that Tommy wasn't her biggest fan, but they were both trying hard to be civil with each for Brendan's sake. Not that it was turning out to be as hard as Tommy once thought it might be, he thought, since Tess seemed to be pretty nice and welcoming and cool so far. And, studying her, he could see why his big brother was so smitten. She was beautiful in a pixie-like, delicate way, but he could tell she had a little feisty edge that made her interesting. She was the same age as Brendan, thirty-two, two years older than him, but her face was unlined, and her body still lithe and slender despite having two children. Her golden blonde hair fell to the middle of her back and despite her pale features she had dark, slanting brows and big, round eyes with long eyelashes. Then Tommy realized he was practically checking out his brother's wife, _his_ own sister-in-law, so he averted his gaze quickly. _So not even like that,_ he thought to himself. _Just checking out the competition._

"Sure," Tess replied, and gave Brendan a kiss back along with a goopy, wide-eyed look that made Tommy want to laugh a little but also feel a teeny bit wistful. _It must be nice sometimes_, he thought, looking at his brother and Tess, and thinking of Manny and Pilar, _to have someone look at you that way and think the sun shines out of your ass._ "I'm going to head up to bed now," she added, and met Tommy's eyes with a little more confidence than before. "It's good to see you, Tommy. Good night."

"You too," Tommy replied, stepping back to let her pass.

Brendan cleared his throat when she left. "So, uh," he began. "Do you – do you want me to show you to your room now, or do you want to hang out, sit for a minute?"

Again, Tommy understood what was being asked without being literally said and he wondered why people couldn't just come out and say the shit they really meant. Brendan was asking if he wanted to talk, to reopen the wounds of Sparta and the past right here in his house after travelling all day and, oh yeah, getting released from prison. _That is entirely too fucking much for one day,_ he thought.

"Nah, bro," he said, and quickly cuffed Brendan on the shoulder. "I'm pretty beat, if it's all the same to you."

"Yeah, no problem," Brendan said, and Tommy could have sworn he sounded almost relieved. "Let me show you to the guest room."

Brendan led him out of the kitchen and up a carpeted set of stairs, the hand railing some really nice grade of polished wood like the cabinets in the kitchen. The wall bordering the other side of the stairs was lined with lots of family pictures, mostly of the girls as they had grown, and Tommy fleetingly noticed as he passed that his nieces were tiny and pretty and spitting images of their mom.

Brendan led him down a dark, quiet hallway, past a couple closed doors, to a room at the end of the hall. He pushed the slightly ajar door open farther and stepped back to let Tommy enter after he flicked on a lamp that was on a desk right by the door. Tommy glanced around, seeing what looked like a queen-sized bed covered with a few fluffy pillows and a pale yellow comforter pushed against one wall with a small entertainment center and a thirty-two inch flat screen on the other wall. There was a bureau and the desk, and a closet. There was a broad window with a window seat, and it was covered by white blinds and basic, no-fuss white curtains. The décor of the room was simple, but comforting and there was a fresh, clean scent in the air. Tommy suddenly found he couldn't wait to dive head-first into the bed.

"You'll be okay?" Brendan asked. "Bathroom's right across the hall. There's clean towels and a new toothbrush, toothpaste, some toiletries. Just extras of the stuff I use. If you need anything else just let me know. And I'll be home as soon as possible tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah," Tommy said with a nod. "Hey, you guys got a computer I can use? Gonna check some ads for places to live and stuff in Pittsburgh."

"Yeah, of course. The office is downstairs. But, no rush, bro. Seriously. I want you to stay here as long as you want."

Tommy nodded. He wouldn't, _couldn't_ stay longer than a week or two at the absolute outside, but the look on Brendan's face kept him from saying so. "Thanks, Brendan. Um – I'll see you tomorrow then, I guess."

"All right." Brendan ruffled his hair the way he used to when they were kids, and Tommy half-smiled. Brendan retreated and paused at the door. "Get some sleep, baby brother. You, uh – you're home now." He smiled, and slipped out the door, pulling it shut behind him and leaving the lamp on and Tommy alone with his thoughts.

_Home._

It was as foreign-sounding and disappointing-feeling a word as _civilian_ was, right now, because the truth was, Tommy didn't feel like he was home. He felt like he was a fish out of water. Home was where Mom had been before she died, and then home had become wherever his Corps brothers were. And neither of those places existed for him anymore.

Too tired to do more than strip off his shirt and jeans and crawl into bed, Tommy shoved every thought out of his whirling, confused brain and went to sleep, promising himself that tomorrow would be day one of a fresh start.

As he quickly drifted off, he hoped he wasn't lying to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey, I'm glad you guys liked the first chapter...reviews still welcome and encouraged! Little warning for this chapter - some talk of violence and also some self, er, love. Oh, and special shoutout to the homegirl cupcakecarrie - your insight is so very appreciated! RRE y'all! Besos.**

**Chapter 2**

He woke himself up in the middle of an agonized, gasping groan and sat straight up in bed.

For a moment, he was really, _really_ confused. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know who he was. He didn't know what he was.

Instinctively, he closed his eyes and took deep breaths, willing his heart beat to slow down and for his hands to stop shaking, and it all started to come back to him. He was free. He was no longer in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, but in Philadelphia, in Brendan's house, in the spare bedroom, in the spare bed. It was morning, really early in the morning, and he'd had the nightmare again. He held still, listening for sounds that might suggest he'd woken up the house with his carrying on, but it stayed silent and still, and he figured that what sounded like a loud, tormented shout to him in his dream was probably no louder than his speaking voice.

It was the same nightmare that haunted him at least three to four times a week, ever since he'd gotten back from Iraq.

In the nightmare, he was back on patrol, that awful night that changed his life forever, with his unit. They were doing door-to-doors. The ironic thing now, looking back, was that they had been _so focused_ on the houses, on what might be lurking in them during their sweeps, that friendly fire was the _absolute_ last fucking thing on their minds. It was unthinkable.

And then – the unthinkable happened.

The hot, silent night in the desert exploded into hell, as houses around him exploded under the bombs being dropped. When he looked up and saw that the jets were American, he couldn't believe his eyes. But the worst part of it was knowing that there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it – he could only _try_ and save his ass, right now, and he had to not think of his brothers at that moment. When the smoke cleared, he saw the bits and pieces of what remained of his unit, including Manny's tattooed arm at his feet – he'd know that scrawling python with the detailed scales anywhere – and his legless body about a yard away.

Tommy could hear screaming; some poor fuck was going ragged and hoarse with the screaming – where was this guy? Even if it was just _one_ person that was alive, that was better than being in this hell all by himself. He could save him, maybe. He had to try. He began looking around for the screamer but only saw more of his comrades, fallen and blown up. There was guts and entrails and blood _everywhere;_ it looked like a movie set. How was this real? How was this happening?

The screaming was getting louder. And when Tommy realized that it was _him,_ he was the one screaming his head off, with blood in his eyes and in his mouth and the taste of dirt and bombs on his tongue, he woke up.

That was typically how it usually played out, as it was essentially exactly what happened – no weird subconscious add-ons necessary. Tommy remembered feeling so _confused_. It had taken him what felt like an eternity to understand and accept what had just happened to him and his brothers. To this day, he still struggled with wrapping his mind around it.

The counselor he'd seen inside Leavenworth had told him, basically in so many words, to find a happy place when this stuff happened. He hadn't used the phrase "happy place", of course, as Tommy would likely have been forced to then punch him in the mouth and subsequently extend his stay at Leavenworth by about six more years or so, but that was basically what he meant. Tommy yanked off his sweaty T-shirt and lay back down, still taking deep breaths as he found his "happy place" – that one summer a couple years before Ma had died. They'd driven to the lake one Sunday in the late afternoon, early evening, and had a big picnic together just as the sun had begun to set. Ma had spread this big, soft blanket on the grass and Tommy remembered wondering if her hand would ever stop moving in and out of the picnic basket – she kept pulling things out, one after the other. Sandwiches, chips, potato salad, vegetables, fruit, cheese, crackers, sparkling juice, slices of her delicious strawberry cake with whipped frosting and berries. It was an endless parade of his favorite foods and he was sharing them with his most favorite person in the whole world at that moment – Ma. With her loving gray eyes sparkling at him in the sunlight, her hand soft upon his cheek, she was urging him to dig in, saying the food wasn't going to get better with age. She had bet him that he couldn't eat everything she'd packed and the dessert as well, and he'd surprised them both by wolfing down his share and then some.

Ma had always really liked to see people enjoy her cooking, Tommy remembered. She had always said it was the highest form of flattery to see someone concentrate so hard on wolfing down as much as possible they sort of forgot you were sitting there and couldn't even say a word to you.

Eventually, the memory replayed enough times in his mind to lull him back to sleep, better than before.

Despite his best efforts, Tommy couldn't sleep in much longer past his normal waking time. At Fort Leavenworth, all of the prisoners had to be up at around five, and he found that at around six-thirty, he was wide awake. He pushed back the fading memory of his nightmare a little bittersweetly – he knew he'd be fine until it happened again, and it _would _happen again, unfortunately. He lay quietly under the covers, listening to the household as it slowly began its day. He heard the shower running from down the hall, assuming it to be Tess or Brendan. Maybe Tess _and _Brendan, if that was how they chose to get down.

Then he realized he did _not _want to think about his brother having sex of any kind, in any way, shape or form, so he blocked the mental image that was threatening to invade his brain with hasty thoughts of something else, anything else. He thought about the fact that _he_ had not had sex in well over a year. He mused over that fact, and realized how depressing it was. Maybe getting a little action would allow him to rest better, and keep the nightmare at bay. Then he realized in order for that to happen, he'd have to first find a girl which would require more effort than he was currently willing to expend, and rape or prostitution were both out of the question (the latter having taken just a moment or two longer to nix as an option). While in prison, sometimes he would daydream about his release and how one of the first things he would do was get laid. But the thought had always left him empty. Maybe it was because now that he was officially out of his twenties, he was seeing things differently and he didn't want random, casual sex anymore. He wanted sex with the same person, within the confines of a relationship. It felt cheesy to even think that he wanted it, but he'd had his fair share of casual sex, and the thought of it now turned him off. The last girl he'd been with had been some random girl he'd encountered as he made his way back in-country from the war and across the country to Pennsylvania. It had been an act of masturbation without using his hands, on his part, she being a convenient means to an end, and he could barely recall her face, let alone her name. That had been roughly seventeen months ago.

As though it wanted to make its presence known and drive home the fact that it had been devoid of any kind of sexual activity involving something or someone other than his own hand for an ungodly amount of time for a healthy young man, he felt his cock begin to harden inside his shorts, and in a very short amount of time, it reached its full size. At first, Tommy did his best to ignore it. There was no way in hell he was going to jack off under his brother's roof, in his sister-in-law's nice, neat, pretty guest bed. There _was_ a box of tissues on the nightstand, but…no. No way. Tommy folded his arms across his chest, tucking his hands in his armpits, and shut his eyes. He forced himself to think of other things. _The Corps. The shitty path my life has taken. What I want now. Fighting. Beating Mad Dog Grimes into submission. That was awesome. Fighting everyone else at Sparta. How sore my muscles were. How fucking sweaty I got. Getting sweaty with a sexy girl. In the dressing room after a fight. Bending her over one of those cheap-ass tables. Pulling her hair – shit…._

It was futile. His hormones were raging, and there was just no ignoring it now. Not with the slight ache he was beginning to feel in his groin, his entire reproductive system begging for relief.

With a huge sigh, he sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He walked silently to the door, opening it, and stuck his head out into the hallway for a moment, listening hard. He still heard the sound of running water and nothing else, so he took the few steps across the hall into the bathroom and shut and locked the door. He glared at the reflection of his enormous boner in the mirror as he flicked the faucet on, rolling his eyes at the way his tip stuck out of the slit in his boxer briefs like it was a nosy neighbor poking his head out of the window, coming out to see what the all the commotion was about.

_Stupid bastard,_ he thought, and moved over to the toilet, lifting the lid.

In prison, at Fort Leavenworth, pretty much every man learned to jack off silently and _fast_. It was just something that had to happen if any of them were going to keep their sanity and restrain themselves from going on a prison-wide killing spree, and Tommy had been no exception. He'd learned to do it fast, and silently, and he employed that carefully honed skill now. He braced a hand on the wall in front of him, and shut his eyes, his other hand reaching down to circle his length and moving it fast. He pictured his little inadvertent fantasy from a moment ago – some faceless woman, a brunette. Bent over a table in front of him with him all sweaty and amped up after (hopefully winning) a fight. Long hair – yeah, he liked that. He liked to wind his hand up in it and gently tug. Of course, that depended on the girl – some girls didn't like their hair messed with. But this one did. In fact, she loved it. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and moved his hand faster as he pictured what her ass might look like. Round, preferably. He'd always considered himself a sucker for a nice set of curves. And soft – he didn't like the overly athletic, overly toned girls. He admired the athleticism and the dedication it took to get their bodies to look like that, for sure – he knew better than anyone the amount of hard work that was involved – but he liked to touch soft skin, feel firm but yielding flesh between his fingers when he squeezed. Round hips and ass – yeah, that was good. He liked breasts too, but not too big – a nice C cup was more than adequate for him. Granted, given the position that he was in in his mind right now, it didn't really matter what her breasts looked like, but from here he could reach around to the front to caress them and play with her nipples.

And she was moaning too, he liked moans. Not the porno-type shrieks and yips, though – he loved the quiet, breathy moans, really soft, and heavy breathing. And maybe just a _little_ shit-talking. He didn't know what this faceless, nameless girl in his mind was saying, but it sounded good apparently, because he felt his cock getting stiffer and stiffer in his hand, and finally a moment later he came hard, grunting quietly under his breath. "_Shit."_

He leaned against the wall, catching his breath, and tried to remember the last time he'd done this. He wasn't a serial masturbator but sometimes the urge became too powerful to ignore. He estimated it had probably been about a month, a month-and-a-half, since he'd last jerked himself off. He knew that some guys had actual sex every day, and here he was, jacking off but once a month. He wasn't sure exactly what that said about him or his virility.

He cleaned himself up and a small section on the toilet, then flushed it. As an afterthought, not knowing who else used this bathroom besides him, he located some disposable antibacterial plus bleach cleaning cloths below the sink and wiped the toilet down completely. The last thing he needed was for either one of his nieces to use the toilet and then report some strange, whitish fluid on the seat. _Jesus. _He was fairly certain Brendan would kick him out, after Tess got through beating the shit out of him.

Once the area of his indiscretion was cleaned to his satisfaction, he snuck back across the hall and shut the door, and climbed back into bed, feeling considerably more calm and relaxed. He tucked one hand under his head and sighed. The "getting ready for the day" sounds were growing louder now, as he heard Tess and Brendan in the hallway, each of them responsible for waking up one of their daughters. He cocked an attentive ear as he listened to childish little voices pipe up at their parents. He heard Tess say "Shh" repeatedly, and he knew that she was shushing the girls lest they wake their Uncle Tommy. He thought about getting up and dressed and saying hello before they left, but he decided against it. First, he had just gotten done jerking off, and to do a meet-and-greet with two little girls shortly after seemed weird and gross and creepy. He needed at least an eight hour day between the two activities before he'd be ready to do that. Second, he knew that the two little girls would only get completely amped up and too excited to want to leave for their daily activities. No, it was better for everyone involved if he just stayed quiet and let them go on about their business as usual, and he'd be there later on. The thought of coming face to face with his nieces for the first time both interested and terrified him all at the same time. He'd never been really uncomfortable with kids; he loved Manny's kids. They were so much fun, so well-behaved, so sweet. Kids were easy; you just talked to them on their level, about the things they found important, and sometimes you shared snacks with them, and boom – instant friendship. But knowing that he shared blood with these two little girls…_that_ was a fucking scary thought. In a way, it meant he was responsible for them, at least partly, and once he met them, he could never _un-_meet them, and would from that moment on always be concerned about their lives and their safety.

He heard a small voice say in a very loud whisper, "Mommy, can I peek into his room? I wanna see what Uncle Tommy looks like."

On the very slight chance that whichever of his nieces had just made that request was granted permission, Tommy quickly pulled the comforter over his head, turning on his side to pretend to be asleep.

"No, baby," Tess's voice came, low and loving. "Uncle Tommy's had a hard couple days. We're gonna let him rest, and then we can make dinner for him tonight. How does that sound?"

"I wanna make him sketti," a second tiny voice said decisively. "_And_ meatballs."

"Okay. We can make Uncle Tommy spaghetti and meatballs, but we have to let him rest. Okay?" There must have been some sort of agreeable head-bobbing because then Tommy heard Tess's voice again. "Okay. Now, let's go eat breakfast before we leave."

"Mom, I wanna make Uncle Tommy breakfast…" And the whole chorus about making things for Uncle Tommy began again, fading down the stairs and melding from separate words into just sound.

Tommy lay there on his side quietly, not moving, and couldn't help a small smile from crossing his face. They were really excited that he was there, his nieces, and the feeling of being _wanted_ was incredible. He knew of course that Brendan wanted him there, really and truly, but it was entirely different when two small children that had never laid eyes on him in person were so excited to have him around. Maybe he could go pick up some little presents or something for them today, he mused.

A moment later he heard a soft knock on the door, and then it opened, and Brendan stepped in the room. He walked over to the bed and reached down to gently shake Tommy's shoulder. Tommy pretended to rouse himself as though he'd been sleeping the entire time.

"What's up?" he asked Brendan, his voice gravelly and low, and that was genuine, since he hadn't really spoken yet.

"Hey," his big brother said. "No need to get up. Just letting you know we're eating breakfast and then we're clearing out. I'll have Tess leave you a plate, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks." Tommy yawned and rubbed at his eyes. "Hey, what are the kids into these days?"

Brendan blinked. "Huh?"

Tommy briefly wondered if Brendan thought he was asking a general question about kids of any discerning age and what type of shenanigans they were getting into so he could be up on his current events, and snorted involuntarily. "The kids. The girls. Your children. What kind of stuff do they like to play with?"

"Oh," Brendan said, understanding finally dawning on his face. He smiled. "Anything Barbie-related. Can't go wrong with Littlest Pet Shop. My Little Pony. Polly Pocket. Books. Games."

"Barbies, Pony, Pet Shop, Pocket," Tommy repeated, then nodded. "Got it."

"Hey, uh," Brendan said hesitantly, and Tommy instantly knew Brendan was about to say something that he wasn't going to like. "You might think about givin' Pop a call today. Just to let him know you're back. He's been asking about you."

The thought of Pop did make Tommy cringe a little, for a million different reasons, but he admitted that Brendan was right. "Yeah. Yeah, I will." He yawned again. "I feel like I got a million things to do. Look for a new place to live. Call Pop, never an easy or quick feat. Get some new clothes. Call Colt –"

"Whoa," Brendan said, and crouched down next to the bed. "Call Colt? Call Colt why?"

Tommy blinked, confused by his brother's confusion. "Gotta get back in the gym at some point," he said slowly. "I can't fight in the shape I'm in now." Tommy was still lean, still muscular, with good endurance, but it wasn't _fighting_ shape. From his shoulder surgery and healing, to not being able to spar in prison to the shit that they were fed, he had some internal cleaning up to do. Good diet – lots of protein, fruits, veggies and complex carbs. Lots of water. Some protein shakes with a little creatine so he could put on some mass. And getting back in the gym – running, bag work, weights, sparring, drills. It was time. It was overdue.

Brendan frowned slightly. "You want to fight again, Tommy?"

Tommy finally sat up. "What's the issue, Bren?" he asked. "You got some problem with me fighting again?"

Brendan shrugged. "It just doesn't seem like it would be – healthy for you, I guess." He shrugged again. "But it's your decision, I just…Colt Boyd, though? He's not exactly…a pillar of virtue."

"What, would you prefer I train with your old buddy Frank?" Tommy said a little sarcastically. He had a bone to pick with Frank Campana – but even now he knew it was a little childish. Still, the memory of Frank on the other side of the cage at Sparta, screaming for Brendan to "finish him" irked the shit out of him, and Tommy was more than happy to allow the trainer the opportunity to do so himself, if he so desired.

"Frank's a good man," Brendan said defensively. "Listen. I know you got issues with him, but I feel like his style of training might help you better than Colt's. Frank uses –"

"That classical music shit to calm all his fighters down and get them to Zen out," Tommy finished. "Yeah, I got that. And no thanks."

"Well, you're gonna _have _to find a way to calm down and Zen out," Brendan said, and pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. "Says right here that you're ordered to six months of out-patient mental health therapy with a licensed professional. Might want to add finding one of those to your list."

"Got one," Tommy grumbled. "Court provided one. I had to tell them where I was going, obviously, so they found a public servant-type counselor in both Philly and Pittsburgh. So, I'm stuck."

"When's the first session?" Brendan asked.

"The one here is tomorrow," Tommy replied. He was _so not _looking forward to that shit. He didn't want to talk. He wanted to be left the hell alone. Was it too much to ask?

Finally Brendan rose from his crouched position. "All right," he said finally. "I'll leave you to your day. I should be home late afternoon, okay? Again – don't feel like you need to rush out of here, Tommy. You – you just got home, little brother, and I don't want to see you go again so soon." He reached out and gripped Tommy's shoulder, and once again Tommy was so amazed that brotherly affection came so easily to Brendan, even after all they'd been through and fourteen years of separation.

_Home_. There was that word again.

He reached up and patted Brendan's hand awkwardly, and Brendan finally nodded and stepped away. After a quick "see ya later, then" he slipped out of the room, and Tommy sighed deeply. Despite everything on his plate, he couldn't say he felt awful about being in the house, but he definitely knew he needed to make his own way…soon.

He went to the bathroom to clean up again and then returned to get dressed, the house now quiet and still again. He went downstairs to the kitchen and did his best, and failed, to keep a smile off his face at the sight of the big crayon-colored picture of a happy family of four, holding hands – plus one more. Someone had written each person's name above their head – including "Uncle Tommy" above the extra person. It was signed "with lots of love from Emmy and Rosie".

He located his breakfast on a covered plate in the oven and found a couple of scrambled eggs, a few strips of bacon and some whole wheat toast. He ate the bacon with relish, knowing he'd have to say goodbye to it once he started training.

As he ate, he examined the drawing again. His stick-figure likeness was holding hands with two small girls with big smiles on their faces. He realized then that he'd forgotten to ask Brendan where to go to buy little girl stuff. He supposed he'd have to figure it out.

He finished his breakfast and washed off his plate, taking a few extra moments to locate where to put his clean dish and silverware, then poured himself a cup of coffee. He carried it to the office room and sat down in front of the computer.

"Day one," he muttered to himself, and began clacking away at the keys.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Olivia Ortega sighed heavily and stared at the mountain – well, pile, okay, it was a pile, but a big one – of bills in front of her on her desk. Some of them were stamped with "Past Due" notices and yet others were stamped with ominous red ink, each with a different phrase but the punch line was basically the same, being that if she didn't pay up soon, shit was about to get real.

She would love nothing more than to do just that – pay up – but the problem was, she didn't have the money. As a doctoral candidate in the field of Psychology, she was about four and a half months shy of finishing her PhD and moving on to (hopefully) bigger and better things. She was _extra_ lucky in that the university was funding – _sponsoring_ – her studies, which meant she would not have to pay any expenses for her ridiculously, outrageously expensive degree outside of the basic tuition; she had to purchase the books herself. She also was paid a stipend each month for teaching Psych 101 at the community college and assistant-teaching at the university, but the stipend was just enough to cover the mortgage on her late mother's house – and nothing else. There were still utilities and other bills, and she did enjoy the occasional meal.

Her estranged father sent her a little money each month, but it was enough to cover about half her remaining bills and buy a few groceries. "Get a job," he would tell her coldly. "I can't give you anything else."

He could. He just chose not to, because he was a fucking asshole. But that was okay – Olivia had made peace with that fact a long time ago.

The one stipulation of the program was that since most of her expenses, the ones that really counted anyway, were covered, she should be an absolute academic rock star and devote herself to writing her dissertation, practicing as a licensed mental health therapist (which she did, had for the last three and a half years, and was currently getting ready to do now), and teaching. Beyond that, she was forbidden to have a job or anything that would take her away from totally immersing herself in the program. That probably unofficially extended to any kind of social life, up to and including dating, but definitely applied to a job.

However, she was desperate. She really wanted to stop asking her father for his help, and she _really, really_ needed the extra cash.

She squinted at the screen of her laptop, scrolling through Help Wanted ads on Craigslist. She swept her long, wavy light brown hair up into a high ponytail and reached for her glasses. She pursed her lips as she perused the ads, her nose scrunching distastefully at a shady ad asking for a young woman in her mid-twenties to give home care to an isolated, "socially fearful" man in his early fifties. Pay was competitive, the ad wheedled. Olivia scrolled breezily past it. She was not that damn desperate, and Ramen still tasted pretty good to her.

Her eyes lit on the next ad, more out of sheer curiosity than actual interest. It was for a "high-class" escort service, serving the Philly and Pittsburgh area, and that all "beautifully and elegantly poised" women should apply. The wording alone made her laugh.

Finally she scrolled to an ad that read, "Cleaning help wanted 2x week. Gym facility. Cash payout after each clean. Call 412-555-0878 if interested." It had been posted three days ago.

Olivia read the ad three more times, her mind mulling over the details. Cleaning a gym facility was not high on her list of awesome ways to make money, but it sure beat stripping, say, or escort services. Or providing home care to an isolated, socially fearful (e.g., _perverted_) man. She jotted down the number and made a note to call it later, after her upcoming therapy session.

In exactly six minutes, she knew that a slightly portly, older man fond of tweed caps would come walking through her door. His face would be lined with years of alcohol abuse and weariness, and memories of sights he'd seen from war, sights unfit for human eyes, and guilt for the actions all of those things played a part in him taking throughout his life. He would say, "Hello, Dollface, how are you today?" like he always did every week in a sort of fatherly or grandfatherly way that might have been creepy if it had been spoken by anyone else but him. It was sweetly fond, and while it was probably frowned upon, Olivia let it slide.

He was Irish, and Catholic to a fault, stubborn and pig-headed at times but generally a kindly old guy who was trying to put the pieces of his life together after years of alcoholism, abuse he inflicted on his family (a dead ex-wife and two now-grown sons). He was a Vietnam war vet with a gravelly voice and a deep, profound love of _Moby Dick_ that was surpassed only by his passion for the Pirates. His name was Paddy Conlon.

He liked coffee, two creams and three sugars, so she got a clean mug down from the cupboard she'd had installed above the counter against the wall, by her desk, and poured out a fresh cup for him. It was not something that she generally did, but when he'd first come to see her a year or so ago, at the advice of his AA sponsor (also a former client of hers), he'd stayed pretty much clammed up and she had been trying out various ways to get him to talk. He'd come in the evening after a meeting when it was already dark outside, so a walk had been out. He was too old for the coloring books and games she kept for the little ones, and had politely refused the bowl of little foil-wrapped chocolates she offered him. Then she'd suggested coffee, and he'd lit up like a Christmas tree. The next time he'd come to see her, he'd been a little more open, but had prefaced the session with, "Doc, could I get another cup of that fine coffee I had last time?" And that had begun the ritual. She had told him she wasn't a doctor, not yet, explaining about school and her program and that she was a licensed mental health therapist but not yet actually a _doctor._ He'd nodded agreeably, but the nickname had stuck. If he wasn't calling her "Dollface" he was calling her "Doc" and it was nice. He always kidded her that she was now _obligated_ to finish her program to make good on the nickname.

She was just finishing stirring the powdered creamer into the mug of coffee – Nescafe brand, it _was_ really good – when her door opened with a couple raps of knuckles, and she smiled when she heard it.

"Hello, Dollface, how are you today?"

She turned around, careful not to splash hot liquid over the sides of the mug, and carried it over to her little sitting area. There was a thick, overstuffed, soft loveseat that faced her recliner, and between the two chairs was a glass coffee table. She grabbed a coaster and a napkin and set everything down in front of him.

"Hiya, Paddy. I'm doing great, thank you. How are you?"

It was not the typical, mindless "how are you" question people asked each other out of politeness. Well, it sort of was, but mostly it was the kickoff to their session. The first few times, Paddy had answered her in kind – "Oh, not so bad" or "Just fine, thanks" until he'd caught on that she was _really_ asking, and then he would go right into it.

As of late, he'd been talking a lot about his younger son, a former Marine, how he'd been released from military prison, sent there as a result of him deserting his unit. They'd had a few phone calls, and Tommy (his son's name) had come to see him once or twice while he'd been apartment hunting in Pittsburgh. Right now, he was staying with Paddy's other son, Brendan, and his wife and their two little girls at their house in Philly, but he had found narrowed down to a couple of apartments he had his eye on. And Tommy was fighting again, it seemed – cage fighting, or MMA, as Paddy had explained to Olivia. Rather, he was training.

"So how do you feel about that?" Olivia asked. "I understand that you trained him for that tournament he was in last year, before he was sent to prison."

Paddy sighed. "The boy is good at fighting," he replied simply. "And I want him to do what he wants to do, what he's _good_ at. But there's so many bad memories wrapped up in the fighting, so much pain, and I just am worried that it's doing him more harm than it is good. Besides that, I don't want him to focus so much on being good at fighting that he forgets there's plenty of other stuff he's good at, too."

"Like what?"

"Well, he's real good with cars, for one," Paddy said, sipping at his coffee. "This is just perfect, Doc, thank you. And he can fix just about anything in and around your house. Dishwashers, washing machines, fridges. Plumbing, sprinkler systems, stuff like that. Real smart and handy. He's a smart guy, he was an NCO in his old unit, oversaw scores of guys. Real smart, he's just not exactly as educated as, you know, someone like you. Tommy don't belong behind a desk, he has to keep those hands busy."

"I understand," Olivia said with a nod. "Practical knowledge, that's awesome. Has he said anything about school?"

"He's said a couple times he was curious about community college, maybe. Take some courses in those types of things."

"You should definitely encourage that," Olivia said. "That sounds like it could be a really positive thing for him. How is your relationship with him?"

"Well, he's talking to me now," Paddy said with a little chuckle that made Olivia's heart ache for him. She knew how much he loved his sons, and what a hard road it had been to getting back into their good graces – sort of. "I mean voluntarily. He called me the day after he got home, and then he was over to see me a couple days after that."

"And what did you do together?"

"Well, just sat and watched a game on TV. We didn't really talk or nothin', but it was nice just the same. It's good to have him home. It don't matter what they did to him, what they say about him, the Corps. He did a brave thing that night, they forget about that. He oughtta be real proud of himself."

"You have a lot to be proud of, too," Olivia said gently. "You've been sober for a solid year now. You're back in your sons' lives, and you've got a relationship with your daughter-in-law and your grandchildren." She smiled. "That says a lot for how far you've come, Paddy."

"Thank you, Doc," he said quietly. "I still get mad at myself, for going off the wagon that night. I coulda been closer to four years sober if I hadn't –" His breath came a little fast and he blinked rapidly, and Olivia knew he was fighting back tears. She leaned forward a little.

"Paddy, you can't beat yourself up for one mistake, one slip," she said quietly. "It happens sometimes. The important part is you immediately went back on the wagon – you owned up to your mistake, you accepted accountability for it, and then you picked up where you left off with your sobriety. It was something to learn from, not something to condemn yourself for."

"Sometimes I feel like he was right," Paddy said, clearing his throat. "Tommy. That day. He said that the only thing he and Bren had in common at that time was that they had no use for me." He looked up at Olivia, his eyes filled with pain. "Boy, I tell ya, that was like a bucket of ice over your head, hearing your boy tell you that he ain't got a use for you. Broke my heart." He cleared his throat again, and Olivia subtly nudged a box of tissues closer to him. Paddy didn't cry often, but when he did, boy, did he. "Made me feel like all the effort I had put forth to get sober and get closer to God, they didn't mean nothin' to him in that moment. That no matter what I did in my life, I'd still be that guy that used to whale on them and their mother, the drunk who never did nothin' with them as kids 'cause I was either drunk, or hungover, or in the process of getting drunk. I wasted their whole childhood."

"Maybe it wasn't ideal," Olivia said gently. "Maybe their childhood wasn't the same as their friends, and maybe it was bad at times. But the important thing, Paddy, is where you are today. You can still be the father to them that you always wanted to be. They've got wounds of their own, sure. But the best way to heal something that's been broken is with plenty of patience, love, and trust. You have to show them they can trust you now, and that you love them more than anything. You have to have the patience to stick with them when things get a little rough. Maybe that means you back off a little bit, but you've always got to be there for them." She smiled. "I know you will, because I know you love them very, very much. And they're coming around, so whatever you're doing must be working, don't you think?"

Paddy cleared his throat again and finally gave in, grabbing a tissue from the box. He rasped out a chuckle as he dabbed his eyes. "Little young lady makin' an old crotchety war vet cry," he said self-deprecatingly. "Man, if the guys from my old unit could see me now…"

"They'd be amazed and proud of all the progress you've made," Olivia finished. They finished out the hour with some more talk about Paddy's excitement that Tommy was home, and his concern that he was struggling with his court-appointed therapists; as part of his release terms, he had to fulfill six months of therapy and so far, he couldn't even get started because his counselors were less than agreeable.

"Been through three of 'em already," Paddy informed her. "Two men and a lady. Said he wanted to knock the men out and the lady seemed scared of him, on account of people knowin' him from the Sparta thing last year and all the stuff that came out about the war and his unit. Said he just can't find anyone he wants to open up to, 'cause they're all judging him."

That was one of the troubles with some of the court-appointed counselors, Olivia thought. They were in it because they were told to be, and just wanted to get things done as fast as possible. Some of them didn't even take the time to really get to the root of the patient's problem; they just wanted to fulfill the requirement then get the hell out.

"Well, that's about all for me," Paddy said lightly, glancing at his watch when the hour was up. "It's already eight, so it's probably time for you to head home anyway, Doc."

It was about that time, but she wouldn't be going home just yet. She would stay to make notes in Paddy's file about tonight's session. She rose from her chair when Paddy did, nodding and smiling.

"Well, have a good week, Paddy," she said, reaching to open the door to her office for him. "Good luck with Tommy, and I hope things get better between you two."

"Same time next week?" Paddy asked, fixing his tweed cap on his head.

"Same Bat time, same Bat channel," Olivia joked. Paddy nodded and smiled.

"All right. Good night, Doc."

When he left, Olivia carefully shut and locked her door. Her office was in a secure building, but this was Pittsburgh after all, so being doubly precautious was never a bad idea.

She shuffled back to her desk, reaching out to turn off the coffee pot. She personally tried never to drink coffee past three in the afternoon – it gave her the jitters and made it hard for her to sleep. Otherwise, she was a serial coffee drinker, and was convinced she did much and more in the way of keeping the company that made her favorite brand of whitening toothpaste in business, not to mention her dentist, from whom she got the expensive in-office whitening treatments done twice a year, which required the scraping and scrounging of money she really didn't have to spend on such things.

"You know, Liv," her dentist would say with a sigh. "I could save you a whole crap-ton of money if you would just cut back or cut it _out_ altogether. All you'd need was a whitening toothpaste from time to time."

"Cut out _coffee?_" Olivia would reply, aghast. "That's funny. I don't even understand what you just said to me. Now, quit playing and let's do this."

She didn't have too many vices or indulgences, because she couldn't really afford them. But she was obsessive about her teeth, having had braces as a kid to correct gaps and an overbite, and as a result her teeth were now perfectly straight, white, and her pride-and-joy feature. So it was worth spending money on.

For a moment she stared off into space dreamily, thinking about the other things she would indulge in if she had the money – expensive hair treatments for her long, wavy mane. She kept it nice with a trip to Cost Cutters every two months and drug store hair masques, but just once she'd like to go to a _real_ salon, a fifty-bucks-a-trim salon and get the works – trim, style, maybe play with the color a little bit, deep conditioning treatment. And she would get regular mani-pedis. She had become quite talented at doing her own nails, but she would really like the experience of being pampered and having trained professionals take care of it all for her. And clothes. She would shop a lot and get the good stuff, the designer stuff. As it was, she saved her money every four months to do a little seasonal shopping, but she was stuck to cheaper places, thrift stores, and the teeny-bopper stores where teenagers and very young adults shopped. Granted, her five-foot-four-inch, one hundred twenty-five pound frame could fit into those clothes, but she was twenty-nine, and while she loved fashion, super short denim shorts with the pockets hanging out the bottom and micro mini-skirts just weren't her thing anymore. Besides, her butt was a little too round for stuff like that anyway, thanks to her Latin heritage.

The thought of money brought her back to the present, and she remembered that phone number she had jotted down an hour ago, for the cleaning position. She wondered if it was too late to call, then decided she didn't care, and called it anyway.

After a few rings, a deep voice answered. "Yeah, Colt Boyd here."

"Hi," she said uncertainly. "I'm responding to the ad on Craigslist for a cleaner for your gym?"

"Oh, yeah," the man called Colt replied. "Sure. You're the first one to call, actually. Um – I'd need someone to start right away. And I'm not gonna do the whole W2 thing. I pay you cash each time. No taxes, no benefits, no questions. I got the cleaning supplies here. It's two or three times a week, depending. I'll show you around the place. Can you come tomorrow?"

Thursday mornings and afternoons _were_ a free day, but before she hauled herself out there she had a question. "Listen, I'm a grad student, and I teach a class at the community college Thursday nights, and I TA at the university three afternoons a week. How does scheduling work, can I set my own?"

"TA?" Colt replied, and Olivia rolled her eyes, knowing where his mind had gone. _Tits'n'ass._

"I'm a teaching assistant," she replied patiently.

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I don't care when you come, we can work that out tomorrow. Just need the place cleaned twice a week at least." He paused. "Grad student, huh?"

"I'm pretty close to getting my PhD," she replied. "Things are sort of busy but I really need the money. And the program can't find out, by the way. I can explain tomorrow if you need me to." Normally, she never would have said that in a job interview, but Colt seemed like he'd pretty much already decided on hiring her, and he was clearly a tad on the "super laid back" side.

"My guess they're probably paying for you, right?" he asked. "I get it. Like I said, I don't do applications, W2s for this kind of thing. Cash money, under the table, frankly." He paused, the silence almost challenging. "That okay with you?"

"You had me at cash money," she joked.

"All right. Meet me down here tomorrow at about nine. You know where to find the place?"

"I'm sure Google does," Olivia replied.

"Okay, good. By the way, what's your name?"

"Olivia Ortega," she answered.

"Olivia. A'right. Well, I'll see you tomorrow. Ask for me at the front desk."

Olivia blinked and hung up when the line went dead in her ear. _That was surprisingly easy_, she thought, then realized that it wasn't like it was an in-depth job. It would be hard work, she was certain, but it wouldn't be impossible. She realized this Colt Boyd guy had never indicated just how much he was going to pay her, which would have been another factor along with scheduling, but then she decided that beggars couldn't be choosers.

She turned to her laptop again and brought up her Google search engine, then typed in "Colt Boyd Pittsburgh". Immediately the first search listed jumped out at her – Colt's Gym on 17th Street. Downtownish. She clicked on the website out of curiosity and scrolled through the pictures. Apparently it was a boxing gym of some sort, kind of dark and dank-looking with sweaty guys all over the place. And nary a female in sight.

For a moment she felt a little intimidated – one woman cleaning with nothing but aggressive, testosterone-y men around? She thought maybe she'd need to address that as well with him tomorrow. She wasn't particularly comfortable with that thought. She decided that she'd make sure to bring her ear buds with her, so she could listen to music on her phone and try not to be bothered.

She flicked off the computer and yawned, deciding to take Paddy's file home with her. She could write notes while she ate a late dinner and then head to bed. Nothing much had changed, anyway, since the last time. She would just need to make some additional notes of things he'd said about his relationship with his son, Tommy. She thought back to the conversation. This Tommy guy sounded like he was really going through it, she mused to herself. She thought about Paddy telling her about his son's struggles with the counselors. That really sucked for him – people who needed therapy (which in her opinion was almost everyone and she was no exception with her own "daddy issues") should be able to get the help they needed.

She packed up her file, her laptop, and that God forsaken mountain of bills (which would hopefully soon be rectified), grabbed her keys and headed home for the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey guys! Hopefully this isn't moving too slow for you. I know you want Tommy and Olivia to meet already, and they will SOON - possibly/probably in the next chapter. But I'm still setting the scene here, so have some patience and stick with me. *wheedling tone* There's some uncle/niece fluff in here! Anyway, RRE for me PLEASE. Besos.**

**Chapter 4**

"You ready to go, bro?"

Tommy glanced up from where Brendan was standing in the doorway of the guest bedroom. He'd been so intent on shoving the last of his clothing into his duffel bag, and thinking about _all the shit_ that had to be done today that he hadn't even heard Brendan walking down the hall.

Tommy straightened as he shoved his last neatly rolled T-shirt into the bag and glanced around the room. The gesture was sort of stupid, he knew, given the fact that the furniture that was _in _the room had been here when he got here, and all of his possessions were currently packed in the bag on the bed in front of him.

"Yeah, I think so."

He reached down and grabbed the bag, tossing it over his shoulder. It was significantly fuller than it had been when he'd first arrived at Brendan's almost three weeks ago. He'd bought some more clothes and shoes and some of his own toiletries. It was no offense to Brendan, but Tommy had different tastes in shaving cream and body wash and shampoo.

Brendan was looking at him sort of wistfully from the doorway as he nodded, and Tommy felt a slight twinge of guilt. He knew that Brendan had wanted him to stay for a month or two at least, and the fact that Tommy had wasted no time in locating an apartment in a city four hours away sort of stung his older brother, he could tell. But Tommy had been adamant about making his own way as soon as he'd been released from Leavenworth. He needed to prove to himself that he could make it on his own.

He'd spent the last few weeks going back and forth to Pittsburgh to apartment hunt. It hadn't taken that long, really, as Tommy's tastes were pretty simple – clean, drug-and-rodent-free if at all possible. Pools, clubhouses, all that shit – too fancy for his tastes. He'd found a place in a neighborhood that bordered a nice one to the north and a really, really shitty one to the south, but the building itself was on the good side of "new". The single bedroom apartment itself was small but clean, with fresh paint on the walls, a decently soft carpet, and necessary appliances. It was also pretty close to Colt's Gym, which was a huge plus, because the other thing that Tommy was dead serious about was getting Brendan paid back. Perhaps paying him back the full million he'd put into Tommy's account was a lofty goal right now, but Tommy had sent all but fifty thousand of it to Pilar, using the rest to pay his yearlong lease in advance outright, buy some simple furniture (he _did_ indulge in a nice flat screen. He did do that.), a new smart phone that boggled his mind – he missed _one year_ of technology and shit had gotten _crazy_ – and also a five-year-old used black Dodge Ram. The truck would have cost him upwards of twenty grand, but when the dealer saw who Tommy was, and who just so happened to be a _huge_ MMA fan, he knocked five thousand dollars off the price. So Tommy had also paid him in full.

When the dust settled on the purchases, he was left with about sixteen thousand in his bank account, which he knew, with his utterly simply life, he could have lived on for the better part of a year or more, but he was still determined to make his own money, and paying Brendan back the fifty grand at _least_ was at the top of his list. Brendan protested up one side and down the other, refusing to take back Tommy's money and telling him it was what he was _owed_ but Tommy refused to hear any of it.

"Fuck. That," he had said evenly to Brendan one night on the back patio over a couple of brews. "I'm paying you back, Brendan. Now shut up about it already."

Now, he followed Brendan out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Apparently, Tommy's Moving Day had turned into some family affair – Brendan and Tess and the girls were going with him to Pittsburgh to help him move in. Then, there was supposed to be some dinner at Paddy's afterward. Brendan and Tess and his nieces were going to stay overnight at Paddy's and then head back to Philly the next day.

Personally, Tommy thought it was all kind of silly, but at the same time, he couldn't deny feeling a little touched that they wanted to spend another day with him before parting ways and leaving a four-hour drive between them. His nieces were taking his moving out pretty hard, having immediately latched onto him that first day they'd _finally _laid eyes on him, and it had definitely been love at first sight on all their parts. Tommy had become almost like their new toy, a family pet, and they were constantly pulling him here or tugging him there, climbing on him, jumping on him, begging for him to play tea party and house and school with them, and in general bossing him around and embarrassing him – but in a good way. He'd never really been able to just _let go_ before, but Rosie and Emily demanded it, and Tommy found himself doing the most utterly silly, goofy things known to mankind just to make them smile. When he had returned from his latest trip to Pittsburgh, after having signed his lease and scheduling his move-in date, he had personally sat down with the girls, one at each knee, and gently explained that he would no longer be living with them but that they could come and visit him anytime they wanted, and that he would be back to visit them, and that maybe every now and then they could even spend weekends with him.

Rosie had immediately burst into wailing tears at the news, and Emily had gotten mad and stomped on his foot, and then she had started crying too. It had taken the better part of an hour, two ice cream cones and lots of hugging to get them to understand he wasn't leaving forever or that they'd never see him again. Afterward, Rosie had forced on him her favorite stuffed bunny, a sad purple and white thing that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in years, if ever. She had told him earnestly that it would prevent him from forgetting about her, and that it also possessed magical powers that would keep him safe from harm. He had reluctantly accepted the bunny, knowing what it meant to her, and kissed her forehead.

"Thank you, Daisy," he had replied. "I'll keep Mr. Carrots safe for you, okay? He'll be there for you when you come and visit me."

"It's _Mrs. _Carrots, Uncle Tommy," Rosie insisted. "It's a _girl_."

"Oh, yeah," Tommy said. "My bad. Sorry, Daisy. _Mrs._ Carrots."

Tommy had started calling Rosie _Daisy_ as a joke. On the first day they'd officially met, Tess had prompted a suddenly bashful Rosie to introduce herself to her Uncle Tommy. She had kept her eyes glued to Tommy's cross-trainers as she whispered, "I'm Rosie" in a voice that only a mouse could have heard. Tommy had crouched down to her level and cupped his ear with a hand. "What was that?" he demanded. "Daisy?"

And she had stared up at him indignantly. "It's _Rosie,_" she corrected.

"That's what I said. Daisy."

Finally, after a few more rounds of this, Rosie had forgotten her shyness and burst into giggles. "Rosie, Uncle Tommy!" she'd shrieked, and then Tommy had to start tickling her, and that made her shriek louder. Ever since then he'd called her Daisy. It had gotten bad enough to where one day Tess had absently called her that when she'd called the girls to dinner. Her annoyance at her own slip had been the highlight of Tommy's day.

His relationship with Tess had warmed a little since their first meeting. At first he'd felt that Tess always looked at him like she was waiting for him to attack or to explode – a very keen, alert expression was always on her face when Tommy was around. And that first day when he'd met the girls, he hadn't missed the way Tess kept her hands hovering near their shoulders like she wanted to yank them back against her, away from Tommy, at the slightest indication he might have meant them harm. It had confused him and almost hurt his feelings – why the hell would she think he would hurt _any_ one of Brendan's family? Especially two sweet little girls?

He wasn't sure if Brendan had had a talk with her, or if she'd had a little change of heart after witnessing him interacting with Rosie and Emily, but soon after that first meeting Tess had seemed to instigate a little thaw, being a little bit less obsessive about checking in on them every five minutes when Tommy had gotten manipulated by little girl cuteness into watching a kid-movie marathon, beginning with Despicable Me and ending with Toy Story 3, or when he'd been dragged into the backyard to play two-on-one tetherball (the girls had "won"). As of late, Tess had been trying to engage him in a little personal conversation, asking about plans and stuff like that – stuff he wasn't totally comfortable with talking about, since for the most part he didn't _know_, but he did at least appreciate that she had stopped looking at him like a stray dog and treating him more like a member of the family.

_Home. Family._

Those two words felt a little more comfortable to him now, like a baseball cap that was finally starting to stretch and mold to the shape of his head, and now he was leaving. Moving closer to Pop, of all people, a source of at least a little discomfort still, and away from something he found himself growing more and more attached to everyday.

He and Brendan walked outside to where the small U-Haul trailer was sitting, attached to his new truck. Tommy had purchased his furniture in Philly – it was just easier that way. Some of it, like his bed and mattress, were brand new. He'd bought a gently used microfiber type sectional couch for the living room from a young woman who was moving away, and he had a small dinette set, slightly scarred but workable, for his kitchen. There was a glass coffee table he'd gotten from Big Lots and a nightstand for his bedroom. He didn't have much, and he didn't mind keeping it that way. It was nice to not have to keep track of a bunch of, well – _shit_.

As he moved to get into his truck, he couldn't help just a little swell of pride. It was a nice truck, and he'd always wanted one, and he owned it outright. No car note to fuss with, no payment arrangements. The only fly in the ointment was that the money hadn't exactly been _his_, at least not in the way that _he_ would have appreciated, anyway. It filled him with fresh annoyance that he'd been reduced to his brother's charity – _charity _ – and just renewed his determination that paying Brendan back was priority _one_, and fuck the rest.

Brendan and Tess and the girls would follow behind him in Brendan's new (well, relatively new – he'd gotten it less than a year ago) silver SUV. Tommy fervently hoped that he wouldn't have to pull over a gazillion times for pee breaks – he wanted to get to Pittsburgh and start putting down his roots. Start living his own life, making his own way, relying on just himself.

They had to stop a total of four times – three pee breaks and a lunch break halfway through. After lunch, the girls begged to ride with him in the car, which Tess allowed, surprisingly. "You sure you want to?" she muttered out of the side of her mouth to Tommy. "They can get annoying in the car."

Tommy smirked and shrugged. "It's fine," he said. "I don't mind. I was starting to get lonely anyway."

"Okay. No rap or metal."

"No problem. They can read to me or something." Tommy could hardly believe his own ears and had to chuckle ruefully at himself. He – _Tommy Conlon _ – was voluntarily signing up to be read one children's book after the other for two hours.

Emily turned out to be a pretty good reader, and Tommy found himself amused by the Stinky Cheese Man's antics. It proved to be a little more challenging than just driving and listening, because Emily insisted – demanded, really – that he look at the artwork in the book when she finished reading each page.

"Pipsqueak, I'm driving," he exclaimed at one point halfway through the story.

"So. Just look real fast," Emily commanded, so Tommy had to briefly turn his head every now and then to make a show of glancing at the pictures. They _were_ pretty cool for a kid's book, he admitted. About fifteen minutes after Emily finished her story, she leaned against Rosie, who was already cuddled into Tommy's side, and the two little girls promptly fell asleep. Tommy glanced down and smiled, wishing he had his cell phone some place at hand so that he could snap a quick picture of them sleeping against him. He knew he was really, really going to miss seeing them every day.

They arrived in Pittsburgh in due time, and Brendan followed him to his new apartment. Though Tommy had been back and forth between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia several times in the last few weeks, he now felt a strange pang that he hadn't felt before. That wasn't to say he hadn't previously felt pangs – he'd felt a pang of just general _weirdness_ coming back to Pittsburgh for the first time after being gone a year, he'd felt a _really_ weird pang when he'd gone to visit Pop that first time, and he'd gotten a pang of pride when he'd signed _and_ paid for his first lease in full. But now, he was getting a different pang – but it was a good one. He could tell it was good – it was a feeling of homecoming, even though he knew he wouldn't look at his apartment as _home_ for a long time – if ever. Maybe it was more along the lines of the pride pang – he was coming home to something that was utterly _his_.

Since he had so little to unload and move, he and Brendan got his stuff set up relatively quickly in the apartment. Then he realized he was missing dishes – no plates, bowls, cups, spoons, forks, knives. Nothing. It was brought to his attention when Emily had asked for a drink of water.

"We'll go out and grab some," Tess laughed at him. "Won't be the fancy stuff, though."

Tommy lifted an eyebrow. "Do I strike you as the china and sterling silver cutlery type?"

Tess smirked. "Maybe just a _teeny_ tiny bit," she joked, then ducked out of the apartment with the girls.

Tommy quickly ran to the door and poked his head out into the hall. "Nothing with flowers!" he called after them, then pointed. "Pipsqueak, Daisy, I got my eyes on you two – you heard me?"

"Yeah, yeah, no flowers for Uncle Tommy!" Emily repeated, and then she and Rosie burst into giggles.

He shook his head and returned to the living room, where Brendan was drilling holes into the wall to mount his TV.

"Need some help?" Tommy asked, feeling awkward just standing around. He always felt a need to be _doing something_ with his hands.

"Yeah, unpack your TV," Brendan replied, smirking. "Unless you want me to mount the box up here."

"Ha. No." Tommy opened the cardboard box and eased the forty-inch television out. He balanced the impressive weight between his hands and waited for Brendan to finish attaching the tiltable wall mount. He helped hold the TV in place while Brendan secured it to the mount, and then stepped back to admire his brother's handiwork.

"Little crooked," he lied, just to be a shithead. He smothered a grin when Brendan's face fell like a deflated soufflé.

"No way!" his older brother said hotly, jumping down from the chair he'd been standing on. He joined Tommy a dozen feet back, saw that his work was impeccable, and then cuffed his brother on the arm, a little harder than absolutely necessary. "Very funny, asshole."

"Couldn't resist," Tommy replied with a shrug, then subtly rubbed his arm where Brendan had snuffed him when he turned around.

"Gonna drill some holes to hide your wires," Brendan called over his shoulder. Tommy set about to putting away his clothing, which consisted of him throwing his duffel on the floor of his bedroom, and realized he didn't have any bedding either. He made a mental note to get some at some point, preferably today.

Tess and the girls returned shortly with a set of dishes for Tommy, in plain white, which he found acceptable. He handed Tess some cash and she waved it off. "Consider it a housewarming gift," she said. Tommy frowned and let it slide, and then when Tess turned her back he slipped the money into a pocket of her purse quickly.

After he was set up to his satisfaction, and they managed to pull Brendan away from fussing over the wires between his TV and his DVD player, they headed out to Paddy's. Tommy followed Brendan in his truck, this time driving solo, and wondered if Brendan ever felt this tense about going over there as he did. Granted, he'd visited Paddy a couple of times, and they'd even watched a Pirates game together on TV. That had been okay; there wasn't much that needed to be said, and they could just exist together in each other's presence and talk intermittently about the game. But Tommy hadn't been around both his father and his brother at the same time. The thought made him distinctly nervous.

They pulled up to the small brick house on a quiet street and Tommy got out of his truck, following the rest of his family – _my family_ – to the door, Brendan carrying a brown paper grocery bag and Tess holding a casserole dish wrapped in foil. He hung back, letting the girls take turns pounding on the door and calling for "Grandpop", and making quite the racket despite Brendan and Tess doing their best to get them to hold it down. Tommy bit back a smile at the sound of the girls' shouts echoing down the street, and then for a moment he thought maybe he had fucked up by offering up the occasional weekend stay at his place – he wasn't sure he was man enough for all that little girl energy.

Finally the door swung open and there was Paddy, his gaze automatically lowered to find the two little girls jumping up and down like rambunctious puppies in front of him, and he knelt and swept them into his arms, laughing in a really happy way that Tommy had never ever heard before, and it tugged oddly at his heart. Emily and Rosie both wrapped their arms around his neck, probably cutting off his air supply at least a little, and pressed kisses to his weathered cheeks. They were absolutely brimming with unadulterated love and joy at seeing their grandfather, and for a moment Tommy wondered what it would be like to know nothing of Pop the Monster and only experience the nice, older man in front of him now.

And as he continued to watch his nieces happily assault his father at the door, and think about what it would be like to not have any memory of him at his worst, and then think about him _at_ his worst, and look at him now some more, Tommy realized with a start that he was actually getting _jealous_ of his little, innocent nieces. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze, and glanced up at Brendan, who was also watching the girls with his father, and he wondered if Brendan was thinking the same thing.

"Okay, okay," Tess was saying when Tommy snapped back to reality. "Girls, can we come in and say hello to Grandpop too? Stop hogging him, already!"

With another really happy-sounding chuckle Paddy stepped back to let them in. The girls refused to let go of him, so he ended up straightening up with each girl hanging from his neck and shoulders, their weight supported by each of his arms.

"Good to see you, Paddy," Tess said, noting his hands were full of her daughters and leaning in to peck his cheek.

"You too, sweetness. Hiya, Brendan."

Brendan nodded a little tensely but managed a smile for his father, patting as much of his shoulder as he could find around his daughter's body. "Hey, Pop. Look who I brought with me."

"Tommy." Paddy's eyes lit up at the sight of his youngest son, and it made Tommy's heart tug in that weird way again. "How ya been?"

"Hey, Pop," Tommy echoed, stepping into the foyer of the small house and shutting the door behind him. "I've been good. Just got done movin' into the new place. Brendan helped me."

"That's good," Paddy said earnestly, nodding his head vigorously. "That's real good. I'm glad you got all settled, Tommy. And that was nice of you, Bren."

Brendan bobbed his head wordlessly.

"We helped, too, Uncle Tommy!" Emily piped up indignantly.

Tommy couldn't help a little laugh. "Yeah, Pipsqueak, you and Daisy helped me too. You bought me dishes."

"Dishes?" Paddy exclaimed, looking between the two girls as he carried them into the living room and dropped into his easy chair, arranging them on his lap. "You bought Uncle Tommy _dishes! _That was very nice of you, girls."

"He needed them," Emily said breezily, as though she were a haughty little queen granting favors to the peasants. Her tone made Tommy grin some more.

"Paddy, I need your oven," Tess said. "The casserole needs to bake for thirty minutes, and then we can eat."

"Okay," Paddy said, struggling to sit more upright in the chair and it was not an easy feat with the two wriggling girls in his lap. "Can I help? Do you need anything?"

"Nope," Tess's voice floated out. "I've got the casserole, the salad and the bread. I brought angel food cake for dessert. I think we're all set." There was the sound of a refrigerator door opening, and then Tess called out again. "Can I give some of this apple juice to the girls?"

"Yes, of course," Paddy called back.

"Juice!" Rosie shouted.

Tommy flicked on Paddy's TV and found some random baseball game – Yankees against the Dodgers – and took a seat in a chair as Brendan sat down on the sofa. Tess reappeared with two cups of juice and told the girls they could only have them if they would stop hanging on Grandpop so hard and let him breathe, and they had to come and set the table for her. So Emily and Rosie carried their juice into the kitchen behind their mother and soon, Tommy heard the sounds of china meeting wood and silverware clinking, all done very carefully with Tess's warning not to break anything or else Grandpop would be very sad.

"So, Tommy," Paddy said. "You all set then? You need anything?"

"Just a few things here and there," Tommy replied. "Some bedding which I'll get tonight or tomorrow. Otherwise I'm fine."

"That's good," Paddy said with a nod. "Glad for it." He cleared his throat. "What are your plans after the weekend?"

Tommy shrugged, keeping his eyes on the screen. For some reason, his entire body tensed up at his father's question. It was sort of okay when Tess or Brendan asked him questions like that, he supposed, although it still didn't really sit well with him. But with Pop, it was like his body disapproved before his mind could even process anything.

"Gonna go back to Colt's first thing Monday morning," Tommy replied. "Gonna start working out, training, getting into some smoker fights here and there. Heard Sparta II is going down over Labor Day weekend in A.C. again."

Brendan and Paddy both looked at him, and Tommy glanced down. He hadn't previously mentioned anything about the tournament before, and he knew their antenna were up.

"Sparta II?" Paddy repeated. He glanced at Brendan. "You – you plannin' on doing that?"

"Not me," Brendan answered quickly. "I'm out of the fights."

Tommy shrugged again, turning his eyes back to the TV without really watching it. "I will if I can get it. That's why I don't have any time to waste. Labor Day is just around the corner."

"What about your – your other stuff?" Paddy asked. "You were saying something about community college the other day. And then you have your therapy."

Irritation made Tommy's eyes burn and he struggled for patience. _The girls are here,_ he reminded himself. "Yeah, Pop. I know. Plenty of time for classes. And I got another therapy session this week." By now, the count of therapists he'd been through had risen to six. It was getting aggravating; he just wanted to be _done _with the shit, and it had become next to impossible to even just get started. "But, I'm trainin'. And I'm fightin'. And with any luck I'll be at Sparta II. So – that's that."

He meant the last part to be _end of discussion_ but the look on Brendan's face – disapproval – and the way Paddy opened his mouth let him know that it was anything but. So it was with immense relief when he glanced up at Tess who appeared in doorway between the living room and the kitchen.

"Hey, guys," she said. "Dinner's ready. You ready?" She glanced at each of them.

Tommy was on his feet first. He was hungry, yes, but more than anything he was ready to be done with his father's and his brother's stares. And as _soon_ as he was through eating, he was going to spin off an excuse about needed to go get his bedding and get the hell out of there. He felt jumpy and on edge now, and he wanted to be alone.

"Yes, ma'am," he said to Tess, and walked into the kitchen without another word.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Happy Friday, loves! Enjoy, and lemme know what you think. RRE. Besos!**

**Chapter 5**

Tommy trudged down the sidewalk toward Colt's Gym, pausing just outside the door. It was _fucking. Surreal. _To be back here, and for a moment, he just stared up at the sign, wondering _why_ he was really back.

Then he shook himself and mentally ticked off the reasons. _I'm good at it, to get money, and to work off some aggression._ The last part hadn't even really occurred to him before but it flooded his mind now, and the realization that it brought surprised him with how much sense it made. It really _would _feel nice to pound the shit out of something or someone.

It was shortly after eight in the morning, and Colt had told him to be there nice and early, after an easy warm-up jog of three miles and a good breakfast for energy. Invoking his old routine felt good. It felt like a sense of normalcy was coming back over him, and that he could pretend, maybe, that the past fifteen months or so hadn't really happened to him. For a little while, anyway.

Two younger guys reached the door to the gym just as he did, and for a moment they both held looks of shock on their faces before snapping out of it. One of them, a young black man, held a fist up to his mouth and crowed as he simultaneously punched his friend, a burly Italian guy, on the shoulder.

"Yo!" he exclaimed, then drove the fist that he'd held in front of his mouth into the palm of his other friend. "Holy shit! It's Tommy Riordan, man – I was going _hard_ for you at Sparta last year! I thought it was _mad_ fucked up what they did to you. And fighting your _brother_?"

"Heavy shit," the Italian chimed in. He shook his head in admiration. "You were a fucking _monster _though, man! You inspired us to get into fighting."

Tommy was utterly caught off guard by both their exuberance and their words, so it took him a second to get his shit together. Finally he shook himself out of his daze. "Uh, thanks. 'Preciate it." He glanced at the door, hoping they would get the silent gist that he was done talking and to let him in.

"Yo, you still talk to your brother?" the black guy asked. "Man, if it was me, I would cut his ass _out_ of my life."

"Yeah, still think it was bullshit he won," the Italian guy added. "That was _all_ you."

"I gotta get to the bags," Tommy muttered. "If you don't mind…"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, no problem. Sorry. You're probably on a schedule." The black guy yanked open the door, and Tommy followed behind as they all entered the gym. And promptly stumbled to a stop when the black guy tripped over a bucket of cleaning supplies near the door.

"Damn, Consuela!" he yelled. "Watch where you leave your shit, _comprende?_"

Tommy glanced over the Italian's shoulder. There was a young woman kneeling on the floor wearing rubber gloves with a spray bottle in one hand and a rag in the other and she frowned briefly up at the young man before glancing away. She reached out and scooted the bucket of water closer to her and out of their path, and resumed scrubbing the windows silently.

"_Español, _Eric," the Italian crowed, digging an elbow into his friend's side and grinning down at the woman. "You know she don't know what the fuck you're sayin'." He turned to the woman. "_Bway-nose dee-ass_, _Signorita_," he said exaggeratedly. "_Coh-moh es-tass?"_

Tommy knew the guy was just being a dick, and the young woman appeared to draw in a deep breath as her lips moved. Whether she was mouthing along lyrics to whatever she was listening to, pumping from the ear buds in her ears, or if she was murmuring things to herself in relation to what was being said, he couldn't tell. But she was utterly ignoring all three of them. He wondered if they gave her this kind of shit on a routine basis. It was a little fucked up – couldn't the lady just clean in peace?

He tapped the Italian kid on the elbow, indicating he wanted to step around him. "'Scuse me," he said quietly. "I got work to do."

"Yeah, sure, nice meeting you, bro!" he called after Tommy. "Hey! Maybe we could spar sometime?"

"Maybe," Tommy called over his shoulder, and went to search out Colt as he heard the two guys begin laughing at that poor cleaning lady again. He glanced around, taking in the familiar but removed environment. It hadn't changed at all and yet Tommy was seeing the gym so differently now. It was sort of busy, sort of not, for a Monday morning, but he knew from experience it would get more and more packed as the day went on. Still just guys – that much hadn't changed, unless you counted the cleaning lady, which he didn't. He saw a few familiar faces, including Fen's, who he saw step around the corner of the ring suddenly. The smiling Asian guy came up to him, reaching out to wordlessly grasp Tommy's forearm. He and Fenroy had always been cool. He was laid back, but a really good trainer and fighter.

"Tommy Riordan, as I live and breathe," Fen said, shaking his head. "Good to see you, man. Got a haircut, I see."

Tommy was confused. Haircut? He'd gotten, like, a thousand haircuts in the last year. Then he remembered that Fen hadn't been around for that because Tommy _had been_ _in prison_ and it made sense. He ran a hand over his short, Marine-esque buzz. It wasn't quite the high-and-tight it had been last month, the top was growing out some, but he did try to keep the sides short. Although he was considering letting it grow out altogether; a _Marine_ wore this haircut. Not a deserting deserter.

"Uh, yeah," he managed. "Leavenworth. Military prison. Like boot camp sometimes." Then he kicked himself mentally in his own ass. Why even go there? Why open that can of worms? "But it's Conlon now. That's my real name."

Fortunately for him, Fenroy was nothing if not a little tactful, and expertly shifted topics. "You back with us then? Or just popping in to say hello?" He cocked his head and smiled, cuffing Tommy on the shoulder. "With the way you always dress up so fancy, it's hard to tell."

Tommy glanced down and let a real smirk cross his lips. He did wear athletic shorts or pants, plain T-shirts and hoodies when it was cold all the time, whether he was working out or not. Since it was summer he was in a gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, Adidas wind pants and athletic shoes. It _would_ be hard to tell.

"Nah, I'm here," he replied. "Want to get into some fights. Want to go to Sparta II, actually."

A shadow crossed Fen's face momentarily. "Seriously?" he asked. "Sorry, not to pry. I just thought – bad memories, and all that…"

Tommy shrugged, ignoring the surge of discomfort in his gut. "Yeah, well. Money's money, and Sparta is no shortage of that. I heard seven-mil purse this year?"

"True." Fen adjusted his face again and adopted a casual tone. "Your brother fightin' again too?"

Tommy shook his head. "No. He's done."

Fen nodded. "You two…talking? You guys good?"

"We're working on it," Tommy replied, and the surge turned into full-blown queasiness. "Listen, is Colt around?"

"Yeah, yeah," Fen replied, employing that handy tact again as he sensed Tommy was officially done with That Topic. "He's around. He's either over at the bags or he's in his office. He's been in and out of it all day, lots of phone calls." He grasped Tommy's arm again. "Hey, man, it's really great to see you. Welcome back."

Tommy bobbed his head in appreciation and then turned to stroll through the gym. He passed by the bags and did not see Colt, so he made a circuit through the gym that led him to Colt's office door, which was slightly ajar. Tommy rapped on it twice and then pushed it open, poking his head in. Colt was on the phone behind his desk and his face brightened at the sight of Tommy. He waved him in and then held up one finger. Tommy slipped inside and shut the door, then leaned against it, folding his arms and looking at his feet.

"No, I'm tellin' you, Jimmy, this kid still has what it takes," Colt was saying into the phone. "Yeah, he's fresh out but I'm workin' with him, gonna get him back up to primo status. When he's revved up he's unstoppable. A monster. You saw the film." He paused, listening. "We, uh – we got started last week. His condition is great for bein' away for a year. Gonna get him set up with some smokers to get his feet wet again."

Tommy's head snapped up when he realized that Colt was discussing _him_. He wondered just who he was talking to, and then realized Colt had just lied to whoever he was talking to – _this _was their first day.

"Listen. Jimmy. When have I ever steered you wrong? Would you please just talk to J.J. and let him know that things are progressing just fine? Not to mention, the man would be a fuckin' idiot to pass on having Tommy again this year. Do you know the amount of goddamn _press_ it would bring? Not to mention ticket sales would be through the roof!" He listened again. "Thanks. I would appreciate it. Yeah, um – no, not yet. I'll talk to him about that, though. No promises, understood?" Colt said his goodbyes and hung up the phone, then looked up at Tommy, a huge grin on his face as he stretched his hands out. "Look who it is. Tommy Fucking Conlon. God_damn,_ it is good to see you!"

Colt stepped around his desk and embraced Tommy, and Tommy stood rigidly, not at all appreciating the embrace, but not wanting to offend Colt either. He needed him right now. So he stood still.

"Yeah, hey, man," Tommy said lightly. "Good to see you too."

"So how are things?" Colt asked, perching on the edge of his desk. "You good, things good?"

Tommy bobbed his head. "Yeah. I took a few weeks to rest and get my shit together after I got out. I just moved into a place here in Pittsburgh over the weekend. Got settled in. I'm ready to work."

"_Just_ moved into a place here?" Colt echoed. "Where were you stayin' when you got out?"

"With my brother," Tommy replied. He knew it always took people by surprise.

"_Brendan?_" Colt echoed, his voice going up several octaves.

Tommy guessed everyone thought he and Brendan should be ripping each other's faces off. It was stupid. Those last few moments in the ring were seared into his memory. Nothing mattered before that moment; nothing mattered but that excruciating pain in his shoulder, matching the one in his heart, the absolutely agony he was in, and suddenly his brother's arms around him felt less like a submission hold and more like a hug, and he was begging, pleading, for his baby brother to just tap out. Just tap, and be loved, and let go. And it had felt like setting down a bag of fucking bricks when Tommy had finally tapped. Like the moment as you were setting the bag down – that horrible, straining feeling in your arm as it bent, your muscles threatening to tear, followed by the sweet relief of weightlessness when it was finally on the ground and out of your hands – that was what tapping to Brendan felt like. He was admitting defeat…but then gaining so much more, so much relief.

He snapped back to the present, glancing at Colt. "Yeah. Brendan."

"You guys – you guys are good?" Colt asked, and Tommy distinctly got the feeling that he wasn't asking out of polite, general curiosity or concern for his well-being.

"I guess." If Colt was waiting for more, he wasn't going to get it. "Look, man, I don't want to talk about Brendan. I want to get to work. I want Sparta II. We got, like, five weeks to go. What's it gonna take to get in?"

"An act of God," Colt replied bluntly. He lifted his hands. "Okay, okay. Listen. You don't wanna get into your personal shit, that's fine with me. But you gotta know something. J.J. Riley is not in a hurry to put you on the roster, not after last year. He thinks you're drama. And me, I'm trying to get him to understand that if you _are_ drama, that's only good for sales." He smiled. "I've been talking to one of his partners. I think he's going to change his mind. But in the meantime, you gotta prove you haven't fallen off. I need you back in last year's shape – or better."

Tommy nodded. "Well, I'm here," he said simply. "I'm ready to work."

Colt nodded. "Good. We don't have any time to waste. I've got a smoker for you on Friday night, actually." He looked at Tommy challengingly. "You up for it?"

Tommy's mind whirled for a second. Friday was _really_ soon, and although he'd maintained decent shape while in the brig, he wasn't back to his ultimate conditioning like he was last year. But he wasn't far. "Yeah," Tommy said. "I'm up for it."

"Good. It's at the West Track Club. Eight o'clock." He scooted off the desk and clapped Tommy on the back. "Let's get to work, He-Man."

Colt made Tommy start with weights – one hour of weight training, just for today. After that it would increase to two. He was pleased to see that Tommy's max was still where it had been last year – weights had been something that Tommy had made sure not to fall off from. By the time they started footwork drills, Tommy realized that was where some of his trouble was – footwork had definitely not been something he'd kept up with during the time he'd been away, and it was showing. His feet felt clumsy, his legs felt slow, and he was getting more and more agitated the longer it went on.

"All right, take five," Colt said finally, and Tommy's drill partner nodded and backed off. Tommy's chest was heaving with breathlessness and rage as he looked down at Colt from the ring. Colt waved him down and put a hand on Tommy's sweaty shoulder. "I know you're getting pissed off," Colt said gently. "But, Tommy – cut yourself some slack. And that's _me_ sayin' it, right? You've been away for a year. You haven't been able to keep up with your training. You've got a _lot _of shit to deal with, okay? Don't get so angry. You're doing _awesome_, and I am not bullshitting you. Got it?"

Tommy didn't appreciate feeling like he was being placated, but there were some bits and pieces of what Colt said that helped soothe him a little. He nodded slightly.

"Colt," Fen bellowed from the back suddenly. "Phone."

Colt glanced up and nodded, then turned back to Tommy. "Look. I gotta take that, then we'll pick it back up when I get back. Okay? Take a break. Drink some water. Take it easy while I'm on the phone. Got it?"

Tommy nodded again, and then Colt patted his shoulder and left for the back. Tommy leaned over and swooped up his water bottle, sitting on the edge of the ring and draining it in record time. He was thinking about going to fill it up again when he happened to idly glance up. He sucked in his breath.

The sight that filled his eyes was not one that he was ready for, and his body and subconscious responded before his conscious mind could. All he saw was a deliciously round bottom encased in a pair of denim shorts, rolled to mid-thigh, facing him. His eyes zeroed in, and in the back of his head he wondered if his pupils were dilated like a cat's when they spotted prey. He couldn't understand what he was looking at other than _Ass. Nice._ He couldn't identify the context or the owner or anything else going on around him. All he saw was _butt. Ass. Round. Nice. Very very very very nice. _He was assailed with images and memories of his little fantasy from a few weeks before – one that had managed to stick with him. A sexy brunette with a nice round ass pointed at him. For a second he wondered if he _was_ actually dreaming right now – just some weird set-up to the mind-porn he'd cooked up?

Then the owner of the bottom he couldn't seem to tear his eyes from suddenly straightened, and Tommy realized it was the cleaning lady from before and felt a tiny pinch of relief that he was actually awake. Then he thought to call her a cleaning _lady_ sounded weird – it was like lunch _lady _and the word always made him picture some old bag in a hairnet and hospital shoes. This was really more of a young woman, and he also realized he had barely looked at her this morning when Eric and the Italian kid had practically stumbled over her. She looked like she could have been any age between twenty-five and thirty. She was in profile now, but Tommy checked out her naturally tanned skin, her medium-brown hair, piled into an impressive mound on top of her head that made him wonder how long it really was, and the only other part of her he could clearly see – her legs and her backside. She was wearing a slightly ratty, oversized black T-shirt, the denim shorts, and a pair of worn out black combat boots, the tongues flapping out down her ankles.

_Consuela._ That was what Eric and the Italian kid had called her. Tommy was willing to bet they were just mocking her, but who knew. Maybe that was really her name. At any rate, she was certainly one of the best-looking cleaning people he'd ever seen before. She looked out of place, like she really shouldn't be cleaning some dirty-ass gym, filled with male stink and ridicule. But he was also glad she was, because looking at her ass, especially now that she was upright and in profile, was…nice. _Very very very very fucking nice_. He couldn't help licking his lips. It was high, but not too high. Perfectly round but not too big, and it sat nicely on her legs. Her legs were slender, not skinny or reedy, and filled out with softly defined muscle, like maybe she hit the gym a few times a week or ran every now and then – just enough to keep her in shape without being a hardbody. And if her legs were that nice and toned, he could only imagine what her ass looked like minus the shorts. And speaking of shorts – he was on the verge of making an embarrassing tent in his if he didn't knock it the fuck off.

He went to down another gulp of cold water – and then realized he was all out, and that before he'd been hypnotized by the sight of one of the loveliest asses he'd ever had the pleasure of seeing, he'd been contemplating getting some water. And as luck would have it (good or otherwise) the water fountain was about six paces away from where "Consuela" was standing now. He hesitated, watching as she started packing up her supplies and peeling off her rubber gloves. He could wait. And then his throat burned, and his muscles started feeling crampy, and he knew he needed more water. Right away. He tore his eyes from her form and took a few deep breaths, concentrating on the horrible stench of body odor wafting from a guy a dozen feet away. It turned his stomach a little, but it distracted him sufficiently to let the stupid bastard in his shorts lie down and chill. When he felt properly flaccid, he leaned over to scoop up his T-shirt, sweaty though it was, and yank it over his head before he made his way over to the water fountain.

He kept his eyes forward, but she was in his peripheral vision and he did not miss the way she stiffened slightly when he passed behind her. He glanced over his shoulder. Her other side was facing him now, and she was still wearing her ear buds, but her eyes kept glancing over at him from under her lashes. Now that her gloves were off, he noticed an interesting tattoo on her right forearm. It looked like some sort of tiny leaf design, like an ivy pattern, that began at the wrist, circling it, and then spreading in a single line up to her elbow, wrapping around her forearm a couple of times. It wasn't shaded, just an outline, and he stared at it, wondering what other tattoos she might have. Maybe she had one on that nice, round –

_Damn, you horny fucker_, he thought. _She's not a piece of ass. And she probably gets this shit _all day._ Don't be like those other assholes. This is not the chick from your fantasy._

Because he suddenly felt bad, first for looking at her like a thick, juicy steak fresh off the grill with a baked potato and some cheesy broccoli on the side, and second because he could only _imagine _the comments and other disrespectful shit she had to deal with every day, Tommy reached out and tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned immediately, and Tommy noticed that her wide-set eyes were the palest shade of green he'd ever seen, ringed with black, and shaded with long, thick dark eyelashes. He also noticed the teeny facial piercing she had, the smallest lavender-colored diamond stud thingy he'd ever seen piercing the skin below the left corner of her mouth. Normally he was turned off by facial piercings, but this single, tiny, simple one was surprisingly pretty. Of course, it helped that the rest of her face was pretty, too. Really, really pretty. Tommy cleared his throat, hoping he wasn't about to make a monumental asshole out of himself. He knew conversational Spanish, thanks to high school, the Marines, and hanging out with the many Latinos of his past unit, including Manny, but he was a little rusty, so he struggled a little.

"Hi," he said in Spanish. "I just wanted to apologize for those guys earlier this morning – they were wrong for talking to you like that." She stared back at him impassively, her pale green eyes giving away nothing, and Tommy started feeling incredibly lame. _This was your bright fucking idea. You're committed now._ "Anyway, I just wanted to say hi and introduce myself...Consuela? I'm Tommy." It had been rough, and choppy, but he'd gotten it all out and felt a tiny bit of pride in himself. He extended his hand.

And waited.

She kept her hands tucked under folded arms as her pale green eyes suddenly turned stormy although her face didn't change. And she began firing back at him in rapid Spanish, so perfect and so fast he could hardly keep up with her, like she was speaking in tape-delay.

"Tommy, is it?" she said bitingly. "Yeah, thanks. First of all, my first and native language is _English,_ not Spanish. Every single person of Spanish or Latin descent _is not _fresh off the boat, okay? And yes – I _am_ starting to get just a _little _bit tired with the contrived, mocking, and overall disrespectful comments I've found myself the target of ever since I started working here a week ago. I'm _just _trying to make some _extra _money _on the side_. This is _not _my actual career, and I am _not, _nor was I ever, nor will I be, an illegal alien, okay?" She paused for breath, and Tommy blinked in surprise. This was the absolute last thing he'd been expecting, and he was starting to feel like the world's hugest jackass. Her voice hadn't risen in volume, and she hadn't moved from her folded-arm, hip-jutting stance, but her tone was sharp and he could tell she was really, _really_ annoyed.

"And by the way," she added, switching to English, and her voice was accent-free and _all_ Pittsburgh, "my name isn't _Consuela._ It's not _Guadalupe, _it's not _Maria, _it's not _Teresa_, it's not _Soledad _or _Rosa. _It's O-liv-i-a."

And with that, she bent over (Tommy did his _very very best _not to look at her ass, and failed), grabbed up her cleaning supplies and shoved them into a corner of the gym.

"Let Colt know I left them here, since you two seem chatty," she went on, not looking at Tommy. "I'm out."

She spun on her heel, and shoved through the doors, and Tommy was left feeling utterly, totally confused.

"What the fuck just happened here?" he mumbled aloud, to no one in particular.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey, guys. Sorry so long with no update. Been dealing with some stuff. This chapter might be a little choppy toward the end. It ended up running long, so I cut it off and the rest will be in the next one. Or something. Anyway, read and leave me a review if you feel like it. I'd appreciate it. xoxo**

**Chapter 6**

Sitting at her desk in her office on Wednesday, Olivia flipped idly through a file, and felt like an asshole.

Since Monday, she'd pretty much gone about her business feeling that way, ever since she'd left Colt's in the morning after cleaning. Oh, and blowing up on that nice guy who was just trying to _not_ be a dick to her the way every other guy in the place had.

Her line of work required a certain amount of patience, calmness, and straight-up decency that she had not shown that guy at the gym, and she had been feeling and felt really bad about it. Really. Bad.

She wasn't sure why it was bothering her so much, but she had acted completely out of line. It went beyond her profession as a therapist; she had undergone therapy herself to deal with her Daddy Issues and over the years, she had striven to harness her anger and emotions, lasso them in, and had forced herself to grow a thicker skin and calm herself down. She had always been a very hypersensitive, overly emotional girl, and it had taken the better part of ten years to become someone more. Seeing the changes she'd experienced in herself had inspired her to become a psychologist in the first place.

And now she'd blown up on some poor guy who was just trying to be nice to her.

Granted, her patience had been worn thin, and it was getting harder and harder to bite her tongue after the gazillionth "Hey Consuela" jab or the butchered mock-Spanish they had flung at her. Then there was that _incredibly _arrogant asshole – Pete Grimes. The guys there called him "Mad Dog" or something. For some reason, some truly inexplicable reason that Olivia would give her hat and ass to unearth, this tool thought he was God's gift to women on two legs. He had a ridiculous faux-hawk, a laughably over-confident swagger that was comical to watch, and he had the weakest game in the world when it came to women.

Well, perhaps not lesser women. But Olivia, having been on the receiving end of his lame and repeated attempts to hit on her, had difficulty in keeping things polite when she turned him down. And he insisted on hitting on her every time he saw her, somehow convinced that her stone-cold "No, thank you" was really just her way of playing hard to get. It was getting to a point where she thought she was going to have to speak to Colt to make sure he kept his "Mad Dog" on a tight leash and well away from her.

So when that soft-spoken guy from the other day had tried to be nice to her right before she was getting ready to leave, she had assumed that he was just yet another prick with way too much testosterone who had mistaken her for the English-is-barely-a-second-language, illegal alien and walking-piece-of-ass that everyone else seemed to assume she was, and she'd let him have it – and it wasn't really about him, but her way of letting _everyone_ have it.

Thinking of it now, she clapped a hand to her forehead in shame and shook her head.

First of all, while he _had _mistaken her for an immigrant, he'd been nice about it. In decent if choppy Spanish, he had something about being sorry that the guys were giving her a hard time and had introduced himself. Bobby? Johnny? Timmy? She couldn't remember, because she'd pretty much blacked out in rage as soon as she'd heard him call her Consuela.

Now, in the "sober light of day", she realized he'd probably heard the other jackasses in the place calling her that and just assumed, understandably, that that might really be her name. Of course, she hadn't paused to consider that tiny piece of information. No, she'd just merrily barreled right along and gave him all kinds of what-for in _real_ Spanish, leaving him glassy-eyed and still, before switching bitchily to her native tongue – cue the resounding gasps; _the FOB knew English? Nah, son!_ – to inform him that her name, in so many words, was simply Olivia. Then she had made a few more bitchy comments to the poor guy before slamming out of the gym and not even bothering to put her cleaning supplies away. That she hadn't heard from Colt about _that_ was still surprising.

_You can really be a cunt sometimes,_ she thought ruefully. _You know better. You. Know. Better._

Yeah, she did. She sighed. As someone who was huge on taking accountability and accepting blame when blame was due, she knew she was going to have to apologize. And it was going to suck, but if he'd been nice enough to try to show her some kindness the day before, maybe he'd be nice enough to accept her apology graciously. And if not, well – that was what she got for thinking she could fling her cuntiness around like feed in a chicken coop.

Two knuckles rapped on her doorframe. "Hello, Dollface. How are you today?"

She glanced up and smiled. "Hiya, Paddy. Come on in. Let me get your coffee for you."

Normally she had it ready or was in the process of getting it ready for him when he arrived, but she'd been stewing so moodily that she'd completely lost track of time. That, and the fact that she'd forgotten that Paddy had wanted to schedule his appointment earlier than his normal seven o'clock time on Wednesdays. It was actually only five.

Paddy swept his tweed cap off his head and held up a hand. "No, no, it's okay," he said. "No coffee for me this time."

Olivia blinked in surprise. "Really?"

He offered her a shy smile. "I, uh – I have a coffee date for after this session, actually. With a lady friend. From AA."

Olivia smiled brightly, and waved him toward the couches. She grabbed her notebook and a pen and joined him in the seating area, sitting across from him. "Really?" she repeated. "That's so good to hear. Tell me about her, Paddy. You've known her for a while?"

"Her name is Cathy," Paddy said, and Olivia hid a grin at how bashful he was suddenly acting. "And yeah, I've known her a little while. 'Bout a year since I started coming to these meetings. She's a widow, just turned fifty-nine. Lost her husband about fifteen years ago. She's recovering, too."

"That's very nice," Olivia commented. "So – how did this date come around?"

"Well, you know, she's quite the pretty lady," Paddy said. "I found myself makin' eyes at her for so long, but thinking she couldn't ever be into an old codger like me. She's a pretty gal, bright red hair. Irish. Anyway she was always friendly, and we would make small talk here and there. Then last meeting, afterward, she just come right out with it and says to me, 'Paddy Conlon, I think I'm gonna let you buy me a cup of coffee.'" He burst out laughing. "So I says, 'Oh, why, yes, ma'am. That would be my esteemed honor and privilege, ma'am.'" He grinned at Olivia. "So now, I guess I got me a date."

"That's fantastic!" Olivia said enthusiastically. "I really hope all goes well. It sounds like she likes you quite a bit."

"Yeah, well," Paddy said, and grinned down at his lap.

There was another knock on Olivia's door, and she glanced at it, frowning. A closed door generally meant a session was going on, but to further the point, Olivia also always posted a "Session In Progress" sign on her door before shutting it. She wasn't sure who was trying to interrupt, but they should have known better than to knock. She ignored it.

"So, tell me how things are going with you and your sons," she said. "The last time we spoke, you mentioned that your youngest son was moving back to Pittsburgh. Is he settled?"

Paddy bobbed his head. "Yeah, he's settled in now. Lives not too far from me. He's goin' to his gym again every day now, and is dead-set on getting back into fighting. He's workin' out all the time, eatin' right. I can already see changes in him. He's got his first fight, day after tomorrow – my other son mentioned it to me."

"Are you going to go?" Olivia asked.

"If he'll have me," Paddy said, a little wistfully. "You forget neither of my boys really want much to do with me. It's not like I'll get an engraved invitation. I'll probably have to invite myself."

"I haven't forgotten that," Olivia said gently. "It's just that I don't quite believe that, and I don't want you to believe it either. I do think they want lots to do with you. It's just going to take –"

The rapping at her door began again, insistently, and Olivia frowned again. Paddy glanced over his shoulder at the door as well, a look of mild concern on his face.

"Might want to answer that, Doc. Could be important."

"Whoever it is knows I'm in session," Olivia replied. She waved a hand. "Let's –"

The knocking started again. Olivia quickly counted to ten, biting back the annoyed growl building in her throat, and looked apologetically at Paddy. "Paddy, I'm so sorry. Let me just –"

"Nonsense, Doll," he said, waving her off. "Go check on it."

Olivia set her file on the cushion beside her and stood, moving to the door. She turned the knob and opened it a small crack, trying to keep the irritation she felt off her face. Then she blinked. It was Kenny Meyer, an old patient of hers. She had worked with him during the early part of the year for about five months as he struggled with a post-divorce bout of depression, and ultimately he seemed to make progress. She hadn't seen him since their last session a couple of months ago.

"Hi, Kenny," she said, trying not to sound as surprised as she felt. "Listen, I can't –"

"Can I talk to you?" he asked urgently. "It's important."

"Are you all right?" she asked calmly. "Is this an emergency?"

He blinked. "Well – no. I just want to talk to you about something."

Olivia smiled politely. "Then please call and make an appointment, okay? I'm in session right now." She stood in his line of sight to protect Paddy from view, keeping the door open only as far as necessary to speak through it. Kenny stared at her blankly, like he was contemplating arguing with her. Olivia had spent enough time on this for now.

"Good night," she said, hoping he would say it back so she wouldn't have to shut the door in his face.

"Good night," he said, a little rigidly, after another beat of silence. He turned and walked off down the hall.

Olivia sighed and checked to make sure her sign was posted properly – it was – and shut the door, returning to Paddy. She picked up her file and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry about that, Paddy. Where were we?"

"No troubles, Doc," Paddy replied. He gestured over his shoulder. "That okay? He looked a little strange. You know that guy?"

"He's an ex-patient," Olivia said. "It wasn't an emergency. Now, about your son's fight. You said he has one on Friday. Will you wait for him to bring it up? Or will you broach it yourself?"

Paddy hesitated. "What do you suggest?"

"Well, since you know about the fight, and you also know that he probably won't just come right out and ask you, I don't think it would be inappropriate to mention it to him, by way of giving him some encouragement to do well, some support for his success. You might even simply say, 'I'd love to be there for you to show my support, if that's all right with you,' and give him the final word. He may decide he'd rather not have you there, in which case, you were sort of expecting that anyway, right? Otherwise, he might surprise you and tell you that he would love to have you there." Olivia smiled at him. "You never know until you try."

"That's good advice," Paddy said humbly. "I'll give that one a try, and let you know." He seemed to hesitate, glancing at her. Like he wanted to ask her something else.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Well. Do you remember when I said he was havin' trouble with all those counselors?"

"I do," Olivia replied. "How's that going?"

"Not good," Paddy said bluntly. "He's up through eight now. It just ain't workin'. And he's _got_ to get started, since it's court-ordered. He could be held in violation of his parole if he don't do it."

"I'm really sorry to hear that," Olivia said, feeling a genuine pang of sadness. How awful for the poor guy.

"Well, I'm hopin' you might be willin' to help me out. Can you talk to him?"

Olivia blinked in surprise. "Me? Well – there's sort of a conflict of interest there."

"How do you mean, conflict of interest?" Paddy asked. "I was just thinkin', I mean – you've been so helpful to me, you're real easy to talk to, and so nice, that I thought maybe you could help him out too. If you can get through to me you can get through to anybody, and my son is a chip off the old block." He chuckled out his gravelly laugh, sounding a bit rueful.

Olivia smiled sadly. "That's just the problem," she said gently. "You're his father, he's your son. I know things about him that he would have shared himself if he were doing this on his own. I'm sort of biased toward you because you're my patient, so it could be difficult for me to keep an objective mind if he touches on any subjects pertaining to your history together. And vice versa, honestly."

"Oh," Paddy said, and looked so sad that it made Olivia's heart ache a little for him. She took a deep breath, thinking. There had to be something she could do.

"Listen," she said slowly. "Aside from the conflict of interest aspect, I'm also pretty busy with my studies and other activities, too. But, I could maybe evaluate him? And then based on my evaluation of him, the main issues he needs to address, and his personality, I could make a recommendation to one of my colleagues." She met Paddy's eyes. "I know some really, really amazing people in this field, really caring and dedicated to their jobs, and I know that I know someone who can help your son."

"How long would this evaluation take?" Paddy asked, sounding more hopeful.

"Maybe a month or two, of weekly sessions," Olivia said. "It's an estimate, but I know that he's dealing with a whole lot, and I want to make sure that my evaluation is thorough so I can make the best recommendation for him possible. And," she added a little teasingly, "you know better than anyone how hard it can be to open up to a stranger at first."

Paddy chuckled, thinking of his own early sessions with her. "Like getting blood from a stone," he conceded. "Well, I sure do appreciate that, Doc, and I just want to get him some real help. If he can't have you, then anyone you recommend for him will be just as good, I know. You're real good at what you do." He rose, hat in hand, and Olivia felt her heart glow under his praise. It wasn't that she needed anyone to gas up her ego or anything like that. But hearing one of her patients tell her that they were improving under her care made her day. She put her heart and soul into what she did, and at the end of every day, she only wanted the people she worked with to get better.

"Well, Doc, I hate to cut our session a little short today, but I want to stop and get my lady friend a little gift before I meet her," the old man said with a smile.

Olivia walked him to the door. "What are you going to get?" she asked.

"Tulips. What do you think of that?"

"Perfect," she replied. "She'll love them. You have fun, okay? Behave."

Paddy threw his head back and laughed, then winked at her. "Not if I can help it, Doll, but Cathy is pretty feisty. She'll sock me right in the kisser if I even so much as look at her the wrong way."

"Sounds like a match made in heaven," Olivia joked. "Good luck!"

"See ya next time, Doc," Paddy said over his shoulder as he headed down the hall. "Take care, and thanks again."

Olivia waved after him and shut her door. She strolled back to her desk, jotting notes as she went. She hoped she'd made the right decision in offering to evaluate his son. He sounded pretty volatile, and although she knew just how shitty court-ordered therapists could be, there was also a little give and take involved too, and he didn't sound like he was particularly giving.

"Blood from a stone, part two," she muttered to herself.

* * *

The next morning, Olivia arrived at Colt's bright and early, in a pair of old jeans, another ratty cut-up T-shirt, and a pair of battered Converse sneakers. Ready to clean.

So far, the cash payouts had been better than she'd expected. She hadn't expected a place as dank and dingy as this gym was to be rolling in the dough, but business was apparently good. Colt had a rep for producing top fighters, and he was a good manager. Some of his fighters, though a very small number, even had endorsement deals in the works. They were winners, champions, and that caught the amateurs' attention. They all wanted to be on the winning team.

So, Colt gave her a hundred bucks twice a week after each clean, which only took her about two hours to do. Two hundred bucks a week for four hours of work. She wasn't going to argue with it.

She fetched her supplies from the back room and got her bucket of soapy water ready to mop the floor. It was easier to do this early in the morning when hardly anyone was there yet, but she knew she'd have to be a little speedy since the really dedicated guys would be in in about an hour.

She had just popped in one ear bud when Colt came breezing past her, on his way back to his office. He pointed at her. "Don't forget to put your shit away this time, all right? I don't know what happened last week but one of my guys brought your stuff back, saying you just bounced. I don't play that, okay?"

"Yeah, sorry," Olivia bobbed her head. "I had a – a bad day or something."

Colt's face softened slightly. "Guys giving you a hard time?" he asked. "You can tell me who. I'll make sure they don't fuck wit' you."

"It's not a problem," Olivia sighed. "Really. Just a little obnoxious teasing here and there."

Colt eyed her suspiciously. "All right. Well, I'm serious now, you tell me if it starts to get out of hand, okay?"

Olivia nodded again, and Colt disappeared into his office. She popped in her other ear bud and selected a playlist full of chill, moody electronica-type music. The day was overcast and gloomy and it matched her mood.

As she mopped she kept one eye on the door. She had a couple of missions today – one was to look for that nice guy and apologize for being such a bitch to him. Her other mission was to avoid Pete "Mad Dog" Grimes if at all possible. She was no snitch, but if she was going to report _anyone_ to Colt, it would be that guy.

She realized that she'd been so annoyed the other day that she really didn't remember what the nice guy had looked like. She had been looking at his face, but really, it was more like she'd been looking through it as she listened to him struggle through his Spanish, practically chomping at the bit in her haste to finally blast back against the mockery and ridicule and general sexism she'd been subjected to for days. All she could remember was darkish hair and the fact that he'd had a whole lot of tattoos on his arms. He'd been wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and she remembered that at one point she'd been staring at the ink as a way to try to distract herself from her anger. It hadn't really worked that well, but she had noticed his various markings.

Surprisingly, it seemed to be a slow day for the previously constant flow of racial and sexist remarks tossed her way. Even the Twin Tools – the black guy and the Italian guy who seemed to have made it their life's mission to go out of their way to fuck with her – had been surprisingly quiet today. She'd gotten a couple looks and that had been that. She'd eyed them warily, but had received nothing more. Hmm – that was interesting.

Around eight-thirty, she finished her mopping and went to start on the windows. She hated doing the windows because in order to be thorough, she had to wash the top of them, and that involved standing on a ladder. She hated heights of any kind, even being just ten to twelve feet off the ground, and standing on the rickety ladder always gave her instant vertigo to the point where she knew she was going to topple ass-over-tea-kettle to the floor and break something, or multiple somethings. She climbed the ladder slowly, balancing the bucket of water and a long sponge attached to a rod, and began to carefully mop the upper portion of the glass. This always took her a long time because she moved slowly so as not to do anything to push her already-precarious balance over the side of "totally fucked now".

She was about twenty minutes into it, and sweating, when the door blew open to admit another gym rat. The force of the opening was assisted by a strong gust of wind outside, and the ladder shook. Olivia froze, wanting to grab onto something to steady herself and realizing there was nothing to hold on to. She glanced down at the figure, seeing some guy in a black sweatshirt with the hood up and earphones on. She only saw the back of him but she recognized his tattoos. As he passed, the toe of his shoe accidentally kicked against the leg of the ladder and she wobbled some more.

"Holy Mother of God," Olivia whispered fearfully, scrabbling uselessly at the top of the ladder as the water in her bucket sloshed. "Could you watch where you're going!"

The guy had turned slightly when he realized he'd kicked the ladder but hadn't taken his earphones off. As he looked up into her face, however, she was pretty sure that while he couldn't hear what she'd shouted at him, her distress was likely evident on her face as he lifted his brows and held up his hands in a gesture of "sorry".

She sighed and shook her head, easing her vise-like grip on the ladder and finding her footing. And she'd done it again, she thought sarcastically. The guy she wanted to apologize to had finally showed up and she'd gone and yelled at him again, like the cunty bitch she was quickly proving to be.

_And you want to be taken seriously as a psychologist_, she chided herself. _You're off to an _awesome _start._

She glanced down, seeing him near the punching bags, doffing his hoodie and stretching his arms. Hopefully she could catch him before she left and do her best to be convincing that she _wasn't_ actually a walking ball-buster.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: One more today. 'Cause I owe ya. xoxo**

**Chapter 7**

Olivia scrubbed irritably at the windows, contemplating her recent string of examples of her utter cuntiness and wondering if it was coming up on "that time" of the month. She suffered from PMDD, and to say that it affected her moods right around the time of her cycle was an understatement. She turned into an absolute beast on certain days, and it took every trick and technique she knew of to keep her socially acceptable.

She finished with the upper part of the windows that felt like it had taken _forever _to complete and took a deep breath as she balanced the bucket and sponge in one hand and used the other to help get herself safely down the ladder, trying to ignore the slight tremble of fear that made her hands shake. She was just about to hit the bottom rung of the ladder when she heard a voice behind her.

"Mm-mm-mm. I could watch you back off a ladder all day. Why don't you climb back up for me one more time, _Signorita_, and then bring it back down?"

_Fucking shit,_ Olivia thought dejectedly. She jumped to the floor and turned around, seeing Pete Grimes in all his splendid douchiness standing before her, his impressive arms folded over his chest. Beyond him, in the ring, was the nice guy that she had managed to yell at twice now. Except now, he didn't look so nice, because he was circling another guy with a very intense look on his face, like a lion waiting to pounce on its prey. Suddenly the very strange combination of knowing and experiencing his niceness and now seeing his _un_niceness made Olivia's lower stomach go warm and shaky in a very odd but not altogether unpleasant way. That, coupled with the fact that the guy was loping around the ring like a wolf on the prowl, his eyes focused, jaw clenched, arms tense and bulging with muscle. _Ack._ She froze, finding herself unable to pull her eyes away from the form of raw human – _male – _power in front of her. The primal part of her that was just all female starting rousing to life deep in her core. _Whoa._ She realized she really needed to start dating or something; she suddenly felt like a cat in heat. In a minute she was going to start rubbing her ass on various surfaces and stretching to entice male counterparts to implant her with their seed. The ridiculous notion made her snort with laughter, and that provided the distraction she needed to get her shit _all_ the way together.

"Hey, earth to _mamacita_," Pete was saying, waving a hand in her face and snapping her out of her zone. "Hey, Princess. You with me now?"

_This jackass. What the hell do you want?_ "Something I can help you with?" she asked in a low voice, trying to avoid eye contact.

"Yeah," he said smoothly, taking a confident step toward her. "You can stop playing hard to get now and tell me I can take you out to eat. Wherever you want to go. Money's no object."

Olivia suppressed a sigh of irritation and refused to meet his eyes. Pete Grimes was not an unattractive guy in a general sense. He had a pretty large female fan base from what she understood, and he was a pretty stellar fighter. She could understand the surface appeal. But his personality was almost comically confident, and she had a really hard time believing that _any _dick could be worth this, no matter how good it supposedly was. In the ring, the nice guy who suddenly wasn't looking so nice (but really, looking _very _nice) kept glancing over at them, his already furrowed brow furrowing deeper. And she noticed that because she kept glancing over at him. She shook her head quickly.

"That's really nice of you," she said flatly. "But, my answer is the same as it has been the last four times that you asked me out. Thanks, but no thanks. Okay? I'm sorry, I'm not interested."

She moved to step around him, and he deftly stepped in her path. "Come on. What's the problem? I don't see a ring on that finger. I don't care about boyfriends. I just wanna take you to eat." He licked his lips. "And then maybe get some food." He smirked, obviously pleased with his clever double entendre. "I'll even let you pick the place. I'll bet you know where the best Mexican places are, don't you? Some spicy food, some tequila – then I'll show you the best time of your life. Guaranteed." His eyes slipped down, stopping at her breasts for a moment before moving to eye the area between her thighs.

She was pretty sure that "the best time of her life – guaranteed" would likely consist of a dozen fast pumps and she felt truly sorry for the women that had fallen for that bullshit. She might have regained her virgin status as her last sexual encounter was somewhere between a year and a year and a half, but even at her most hormonal, Olivia knew she would never sacrifice her personal standards and/or dignity for something like what he was offering. She felt the onset of a migraine tugging at her temples.

"No, thank you," she said as firmly as she could. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

This time he let her step around him back to the window so she could finish her work, giving him her back, and he started to back away, still staring at her. In fact, if the fact that her ass felt like it was getting warm was any indication, she was pretty sure she knew exactly where he was staring.

"You'll change your mind," he called after her. "Once you see me in the ring. You'll change your mind."

Olivia moved to the base of the windows and crouched down, muttering darkly under her breath as she began to clean them. This guy was by far the most obnoxious asshole she'd ever encountered, and that was _really_ saying something. In order to get him to let off of her she was pretty sure she'd need to quit altogether – but at two hundred dollars a week for four hours or so of work – that was a hard bargain. Perhaps she should talk to Colt about his fighter today. Now that Mad Dog had graduated to making sexual comments to her, this had officially just gotten out of hand.

She peeked over her shoulder to see if he was still there and felt immense relief when she saw that he was gone. She wasn't sure where he had gone to, but as long as it wasn't within ten feet of her, she didn't care. She turned back to the window and redoubled her efforts, ready to finish up and get out of there.

After a while she glanced over her other shoulder, where the nice guy was still in the ring, sparring with his partner. He must be training for something, she decided, as every now and then the sparring would stop, and his partner would point out something he was doing with his feet, or some way he should feint, or some little drill to do for a second. It was sort of interesting, and though what Olivia didn't know about fighting would fill a book, she could tell that that nice guy had some serious, serious skill. He was big and strong, but he was also fast, lightning sharp and accurate with his strikes and kicks. He was really fascinating to watch.

Finally after a while they must have told him to take a break, because he hopped out of the ring to grab a towel and his bottle of water. And then Mad Dog reappeared, ready to head into the ring now. He and the nice guy bumped shoulders as they passed, and for a moment, the air was so electric and tense around them that Olivia felt her stomach unconsciously tighten with stress.

They froze and stared each other down malevolently, the utter dislike they had for each other plainly apparent in the rigid ways they held their bodies, neither one willing to back down. Olivia realized she was holding her breath, waiting for someone to make the first move and feeling pretty confident in the fact that it would probably become a bloodbath. She wondered what had happened between them to cause them to feel this way toward the other – practically no one else in the gym had acted this way with another guy. It seemed to be a pretty laid back, friendly atmosphere – this seething violence, straining below the surface of a gym with rules, was completely unprecedented.

Then she saw Colt, coming around from the other side of the ring, smoothly interjecting himself between them. "Okay, okay, okay," he was saying, fast and low and calm. "Tommy – go get some water. _Over there_. Pete, in the ring. C'mon. Enough of this shit. Let's go." He glanced around at the small crowd hanging on the scene, waiting for the explosion like she was waiting for it. "Nothin' to see, guys. Get back to work. Let's go!"

The two men parted ways, but not without one more look of utter hatred and violence between them before doing so. Mad Dog climbed into the ring and immediately began hopping from foot to foot, stretching out his neck. The nice guy – _Tommy – _began heading toward the back corner where the water fountain was, his bottle empty in his hand.

_Tommy. That's right._ There was something naggingly familiar about the name, but she was too annoyed and flustered right now to think of it, and a little eruption of nerves burst in her belly when she realized her chance to apologize was heading her way _right now._ He was a little intimidating at the moment – anger evident on every line of his face and body, and he suddenly looked huge and tense to her. She remained crouched near the floor, watching him out of the corner of her eye pass behind her and come to a jarring, heavy halt before the water fountain, his feet practically slamming into the floor, his hand yanking the lever with more force than necessary to get the water going and slamming his bottle underneath the little stream to fill it.

Yeah. He looked totally ready to be on the receiving end of an apology for completely uncalled for cunty bitchiness.

_He didn't ask you to go off on him,_ Olivia reminded herself. _You did that all by yourself. You can't go around talking shit to people like that – you know better. Now put your big girl panties on and go be an adult._

She silently rose from the ground, keeping her eyes on him as he waited for the bottle to fill at its agonizingly slow pace. She took a few steps in his direction, her Converse silent on the concrete, and was about to reach out to tap him on the shoulder when he suddenly whirled around, his eyes blazing furiously as he stared at her.

"What?" he barked, and she jumped, alarmed. As the initial shock at his abruptness coursed through her, she realized that he was _extremely _startled and agitated.

"Sorry," she said quickly, taking a step back. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I'm sorry." Her intuitive mind instantly identified the look of almost panic in his eyes, though it started to recede. His body was relaxing now, but had he been an animal, just moments before, his hackles would have been raised on his back. She had seen this sort of behavior in other people – in people who suffered from PTSD. _Very interesting_. She kept her eyes on him and her hands still in the air as her training instinctively took over, making her voice low and calm, her body doing everything it could to convey to him she was no threat and that he could relax.

He took and released a very deep breath. "Sorry," he muttered. "I just – my mind was somewhere else for a minute. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you." His eyes moved over her quickly before flicking out the window as he took a long drink of his water.

The irony of his words to her, being that they were the ones that she exactly intended to say to _him_, made her chuckle ruefully, and his eyes pulled toward her again, looking at her curiously.

"Did I say something funny?" he asked, with the tiniest edge to his voice.

Olivia sighed. "No, I'm not laughing at you," she said, hardly believing that her apology was going like _this_. "I'm laughing because – well, what you just said to me is exactly what I came over here to say to _you._"

He lifted his eyebrows curiously. "I don't follow."

"I came over here because I wanted to apologize to you for the other day," she said. "When I bitched at you when you were just trying to be nice to me." He nodded in a slow way that let her know he knew exactly what she was talking about. "I'm not trying to justify or rationalize anything, okay? I just wanted to tell you pretty much what you just said – my mind was somewhere else that day and I just – I just wasn't open to hearing anything else from anyone else in this place. I was in a bad mood and I took it out on you. I'm sorry. Oh, and sorry also for yelling at you this morning."

"This morning?" he repeated, looking confused.

"When you came in – you accidentally kicked the leg of my ladder and it made it go all wobbly for a second. I'm afraid of heights so I thought I was about to die and I yelled at you."

"I must have had my headphones on," he said. "I didn't mean to make you feel like you were gonna die. I'm clumsy – my fault."

"You did have them on – either way, it doesn't matter. I yelled at you this morning too so, I'm sorry for that as well."

He shrugged, glancing into her face quickly before looking away. "Hey, no hard feelings. It's understandable. Sometimes people just piss you off." His eyes moved to the ring and narrowed immediately. He glanced back at her. "People still giving you a hard time around here?"

"Not really today, no," Olivia said. "Except for the guy in the ring right now, but he hits on me every time he sees me. But all the other stuff has not been a problem today." It dawned on her that not a single person had made a comment toward her, and as she looked at him again, she wondered if he had anything to do with that.

His face remained impassive. "Good."

Olivia bit her lip, then hesitantly extended her hand. He looked at it, his face mildly surprised. She half-smiled at him. "I'm Olivia," she said. "I think I mentioned that the other day, but it was so full of bitch I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't even hear it."

Finally, _finally_, he cracked a small smile. _Hallelujah. _And in that moment, Olivia realized that he was incredibly good-looking. Clear pewter blue eyes, a straight nose rare for a fighter, and a sensually full, luscious set of lips that she couldn't seem to stop staring at. _Wow. Wow. _

He reached out and his large, strong hand gently closed around hers and shook it slightly. "Tommy. Tommy Conlon. Nice to meet you, Olivia."

_Tommy Conl – _"Did you say…Conlon?" she repeated slowly, surprise and recognition lighting through her system like an electrical shock.

He looked at her curiously. "Yeah, Conlon," he repeated. A look of understanding came across his face. "It – it's my brother's name. He's sort of a hometown celebrity. That's why it sounds familiar."

_No, it's familiar because I'm your father's fucking therapist! _And on the tail end of that thought, Olivia couldn't help marvel at the fact that weathered old Paddy Conlon had created _this _absolutely magnificent specimen of a man. And that thought was _totally_ inappropriate especially because she had just agreed to help this man on his journey toward mental health.

"Yeah, maybe," she mumbled awkwardly. She had no idea what to do now, so leaving seemed like the best option. "Well, hey, I've gotta get going. It was nice to meet you, sorry again for taking your head off the other day, and um – happy, uh, happy fighting."

She bent to gather her supplies and hustled away before he could say anything else, seeing the confusion on his face again at her abrupt departure.

_Naturally,_ she thought. _It figures. Gorgeous guy at the gym is the deeply troubled son of one of my patients. Of course. _

She had no idea what to do now.

* * *

When Tommy was finally done with his workout later that day, he grabbed his towel and water bottle and headed for the locker room, studiously avoiding any eye contact with Mad Dog Grimes on his way. He knew that Mad Dog had it out for him in the worst way, after the fight in the gym and then at Sparta last year (which still made him smile). And he knew that he was going to do everything he could to draw Tommy out in a fight now, to get him disqualified from entering the tournament and possibly kicked out of the gym altogether.

Tommy knew that J.J. Riley had misgivings about adding him to the tournament line up since he felt like Tommy was walking drama. And the man had a point – Tommy _had_ brought drama last time. But that drama had pretty much resolved itself (at least, there would be no MPs waiting around to haul him off this time around – probably), and he wouldn't be doing _anything _out of line that would fuck up his chances at the seven million dollar purse. Because, dammit, he wanted that. Bad. And he knew that he an excellent chance of winning it. And although beating Mad Dog into submission for a third time was a thought that Tommy relished like a piece of chocolate cake or a few strips of thick hickory smoked bacon fried to perfection, he knew he would only be fucking himself in the end. So, unless a scenario presented itself whereby Tommy would need to defend himself, he was going to do his part and stay far the fuck away from Mad Dog Grimes and keep his temper in check when his opponent insisted on getting in his face. Which he did, a lot.

Mad Dog wasn't stupid, though, or at least not as stupid as he presented himself to be. He knew what he stood to lose as well if he and Tommy actually came to blows outside a tournament ring. And that just made him an even bigger asshole for trying to draw Tommy out.

_Not gonna fall for your bullshit, my friend,_ Tommy thought as he showered. _Nice try, but it ain't happening._

He finished up his shower and changed into the clean clothes he brought, then went to go see Colt in his office before he left. Colt was, as he expected, on the phone, and gave Tommy his index finger as he wrapped up his call.

"Yeah, yeah, Jimmy, it's coming along nicely," he was saying. "Yep. We're gettin' ready for the fight on Friday. Yep, he's made weight, doing everything he's supposed to. I'm telling you, it's like he never went away. I ain't ever seen no one snap back into shape this fast. He's a monster." Colt winked at Tommy. "So what's J.J. saying these days about Sparta?" He paused. "I don't care that I'd have two fighters from my gym. I'm glad for it." He listened again. "All right. All right. That sounds good. I think he can do that – I'll talk to him about it now. All right. Later, Jimmy."

He hung up the phone and beamed at Tommy, shadowboxing him playfully a little. "How's my champ?"

"Fine," Tommy said tersely. "What was that all about? Talk to me about what?"

"Whoa, whoa," Colt said jovially, holding up his hands. "Take it easy. Sit down here. I have a business proposition for you."

Tommy warily took a seat, eyeing Colt. "All right. Let me hear it."

"Well. J.J. Riley is coming around about adding you to the roster. But he's still a little wary. You haven't fought yet, and tickets are about to go on sale here in the next couple weeks. Basically, he wants to know that you've got draw still. So he wants you to do some publicity type stuff locally. An ad for the gym." He paused, and the way he left off made Tommy think he was about to say something that he was really, really not going to like. "He also wants you to do a story with the papers and open up about last year. About going to prison. The thing with Brendan and your dad. The Iraq thing with the friendly fire and the tank. All that." He folded his arms. "He feels like based on the response that you get, and the response that the gym gets from your ad, if it's good, if it's positive, he'll put you on the roster."

"That's fucking bullshit," Tommy said, blunt and angry. "That's bullshit – I'm supposed to put my personal life on front fuckin' street? Basically _humiliate_ myself for him?"

Colt shrugged. "If that's what you want to call it, Tommy. Quit being such a bitch. We're talking about seven million dollars here. Personally, I think you've got the best shot of all the fighters that I currently know of on the roster, including Mad Dog, to win this thing, and this is you three days into training without a fight under your belt yet. Okay? That's coming from me." He leaned forward. "You got robbed last year, bro. You want another shot or what?"

Tommy felt like he had just gotten punched in the stomach, as memories and flashbacks of _all those things _they wanted him to talk about assailed him. He felt like he could have a panic attack, right here, right now.

With surprising calm, he heard his voice say, "Can I have the night to think it over?" _Answer's no. No no no no no no hell fucking no. No no no._

"Sure, bro." Colt nodded. "You can have the night. We'll talk tomorrow morning when you come in, okay? Get it all hashed out, and if the answer's yes, I'll take care o' everything. You don't have to worry about nothin' except bein' when and where I tell you to be. A'right?"

Tommy left the gym in a haze, wishing he could teleport into his apartment and sink into a dark corner. _Too much,_ he chanted over and over, in time to the rapid steps he took toward his truck. _Too much too much too much too much too much. _

He reached his truck and had just climbed in when his cell phone buzzed. It was a text message from Pop. _At Gina's. Come meet me for early supper._

Tommy was about to text back _no thanks_ when he stopped himself. Maybe he should talk about this stuff with Pop and see what he thought. Get his take on it. If nothing else, Pop understood what it was like to be asked to rehash old wounds and talk about the trauma of war. And he also understood how important the tournament was, even if he didn't agree with it.

Plus, he was damn hungry now that he thought about it. A nice hot meal would be excellent right now.

He gripped the door of his truck and took some deep breaths, willing himself to calm down. Gina's was off 19th street and just a couple blocks away from where he was now. A good meal and maybe, just maybe, a father-son chat might help him more than finding the darkest corner in his apartment and burying himself there.

_Yeah. On my way pop. _He hit "send" before he could change his mind, and wondered what in the hell had possessed him to do this.

He was still feeling sort of amped up as he walked the couple of blocks to the diner, so he tried to think about something else other than what he was being asked to do. Thinking about Mad Dog got him pissed off and even more riled up. Thinking about his fight on Friday made him feel a little nervous, and _that_ also pissed him off. He hated feeling nerves – he felt they were a sign of weakness. The only time he'd ever felt nerves at Sparta was during his fight with Brendan.

Instead, his thoughts drifted unconsciously to Olivia. She was just as pretty and appealing as she had been the first day he'd seen her – and it had been hard not to stare. He'd tried to look everywhere but right at her. Even in casual old clothes she looked like a fucking pageant queen. Her hair had been in a ponytail today, and he could see just how long and wavy it was. Her face was so much prettier when she wasn't mad. Their strange encounter that morning had taken a turn for the better this time around, at least. He appreciated the fact that she'd talked to him, had apologized to him for snapping at him the other day. He understood where she'd been coming from, hadn't blamed her at all for that. In fact, because he so much did _not _hold a grudge against her for that, he had made it a point to talk to some of the guys around the gym and tell them to back off her, that they were being totally out of line. And apparently, it had worked.

He felt a little bad about snapping at _her _at first. He'd been _so fucking pissed _at Grimes, he'd been completely in his own headspace and he hadn't even heard her – he'd _felt _her sneak up on him. Of course she hadn't really been _sneaking_ but for a moment he'd forgotten where he was and the only thought in his mind was that – strangely – he was about to get his throat slit. Where that notion had come from, he didn't know, but it had made him spin around and yell at her, ready to grab her or whomever by the throat and _end them_ before they could do it to him.

The funny thing was, she hadn't really looked scared exactly. She'd looked startled, for sure, but this weird, almost understanding look had come into her pale green eyes, and she had started talking to him in a low, soothing way, her body relaxing and all of that verbal and nonverbal stuff she was floating to him made him relax as well. He didn't know how she knew to do that, and didn't know how _he _knew he needed that, but she had and he did, and it worked. It helped.

Except he was pretty sure now he'd scared her off with his name. She probably heard all about the drama from last year – who in Pittsburgh hadn't? Plus she worked at Colt's. She had to know all about it. That was why she'd started talking fast and had wasted no time in getting the hell out of there. Who wanted to deal with drama like Tommy Conlon? No sane person, no sane woman, and maybe not even J.J. Riley – unless he bent over and took it up the ass as directed.

And now, he was about to share a meal with the man who had given him his name – Paddy Conlon. Where it all started – all of it. All of the _shit._

_I'm a glutton for punishment,_ he thought, pushing through the glass doors of the diner and spotting his father, waving at him from a back corner booth. _Might as well have some more._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Tommy slid into the booth across from Pop, noting with curiosity how his shoulders suddenly got all tensed up as soon as he looked Pop in the face. It was like it was some weird physiological response he got from looking at his father, like his body automatically tensed up to ward off a blow after years of practice and conditioning.

_Fucking hell_, he thought, feeling suddenly depressed. _This shit is too much sometimes._

"Hey, boy," his father said, sounding pleased to see him. "How was the gym? You ready for tomorrow?"

Tommy glanced up sharply. _Brendan._ He hadn't decided on whether or not he was going to tell Pop about tomorrow's fight, because he knew he'd insist on being there, but naturally, leave it to Brendan to be playing operator. He glanced back down at the Formica tabletop and began idly tracing circles.

"Ready as I'm gonna be," he muttered back. "Listen, Pop –"

"Tommy, I just want you to know that I support you in this thing, and I'd love to be there for you, if you want me to," his father said earnestly, and it had Tommy snapping his head up again, and this time he openly gaped at his father. _What?_

"But only if you want me to," Paddy went on. "I don't want to impose."

"It – it's not," Tommy mumbled, surprise still coursing through his veins. He cleared his throat as a waitress approached with a second glass of ice water for him. "Uh – it's okay with me, Pop."

Paddy beamed as the waitress set down the water in front of Tommy and handed him a menu. She promised to return in a couple of minutes. Tommy glanced over the menu although he knew he wouldn't be ordering anything off of it. When she returned, Paddy ordered his usual Reuben and fries, and Tommy ordered two grilled chicken breasts, a plain baked potato, and a side of steamed broccoli.

"So what's the latest on Sparta?" Paddy asked, sipping at a cup of coffee. "You on the roster yet?"

Tommy sighed, thinking back to his conversation with Colt. "Not – not exactly. He had some, uh – stipulations. Well, by way of J.J. Riley, anyway."

Paddy's eyes met his alertly over the rim of his coffee cup. "What sorta stipulations?"

"I gotta do an ad for Colt's Gym."

"That's not so bad," Paddy replied with a shrug, setting down his cup in its saucer. "Good to get your face out there, let people know you're back."

"That ain't all," Tommy said. Pop glanced up at him again. "I also gotta do an interview with the paper about – about everything. About you, Brendan, the first Sparta, the war."

"Why in hell would they make you do that?" Pop's eyes flashed a little angrily. "What the hell is that about?"

"I don't know," Tommy replied with a somewhat dejected shrug. "Somethin' about getting positive press. If I get a positive response, then I get on the roster."

"Public humiliation, more like it," Paddy said, and Tommy glanced up, feeling really surprised at how upset Pop was getting about this. _Almost like _he's _gotta do the fuckin' interview._ "That's bullshit, Tommy – I don't think you should do it."

Tommy lifted his eyebrows. "Really?" This was sure as hell not what he expected to hear.

"Really. I don't think it's healthy for you."

The irony of the idea of Pop – Paddy Conlon – talking about what was or wasn't healthy for _him_ actually made him smile. His dark mood suddenly brightened a little.

"I appreciate that, Pop," he said, unable to stop smiling. It was just so fucking _funny_. Now, the emotional toll Riley's stipulations had put on him for the last hour seemed to go away. No big deal anymore; how was it ever? "We _are_ talking seven million dollars on the line. I'll talk about some of my bullshit if it means I get a shot at it."

"Don't exploit yourself, Tommy," Paddy said, frowning disapprovingly. "And why the hell are you smiling? This ain't funny."

Tommy shook his head and kept grinning. It was with real humor that he smiled up at the waitress when she brought their plates to the table, and then she got all fluttery. "Thanks, sweetheart."

"Sure," she said a little breathlessly. "You guys need anything?"

"We're good," Tommy replied, not waiting for his father to speak up, and cut voraciously into his chicken and steaming potato.

Paddy frowned deeper. "Not gonna say grace?"

Tommy stopped mid-chew and looked at Paddy. Had he not had a huge mouthful of food he would have laughed outright. First Paddy Conlon talked about what wasn't healthy for him, and now he was asking if he was gonna say _grace?_ It was too much; Pop was on a roll. He couldn't keep his grin at bay even as he chewed, making a show of setting down his fork and slowly, exaggeratedly crossing himself, touching his hands together in a prayer position, before grabbing up his fork again and resuming chowing down.

Paddy shook his head. "Tommy, you blaspheme."

Now Paddy was passing _religious_ judgment on him? This was all _too fucking funny_ for words. He lowered his fork to his plate and bowed his head, unable to do anything but let his shoulders shake with mirth. When he finally lifted his head, he caught Paddy staring at him like he'd lost his mind. That just made him laugh harder.

"Tommy," Paddy said slowly. "What is going on with you?"

_You,_ Tommy thought, swiping a hand over his face. _You're hilarious, and you don't even know it. _"Nothin', Pop," was what he said, shaking his head. "Nothin'."

Paddy's eyes narrowed. "Listen, there's somethin' that I wanted to talk to you about," he began, pushing his fries around without really eating them. "Somethin' I want to help you with."

You _help me?_ Tommy bit his lip to keep from actually uttering it out loud. "What's up, Pop?" he asked, realizing how tired his voice sounded now that his amusement had passed.

"Well, it's about your problems with your therapists. How you haven't been getting any help." Paddy paused to take a sip of water and Tommy eyed him warily. The subject of therapy was a touchy one and he couldn't imagine what sort of help Paddy would have to offer _him._

"Yeah," Tommy said, taking a huge mouthful of potato. "What about it?"

"I go see someone myself each week after my meeting," Paddy said, and that was news to Tommy. Pop in therapy? Talking about his feelings and shit? _What?_ "Real nice little gal. She's really helped me a lot, Tom, and I thought maybe you could talk to her."

"What, like me and you see the same shrink?" Tommy scoffed and took a swig of water. "I don't know much about that, Pop, but I'm pretty sure there's some rules against that sort of thing."

"There are," Paddy said patiently. "She wouldn't be your shrink exactly. More like she'd talk with you a little, help you pinpoint your problems, then refer you out to one of her colleagues. She's real good, Tommy, real nice and patient and helpful. She works with people she thinks highly of, so I know you'd be in good hands. What do you say?"

It was Tommy's immediate reaction to want to refuse. He supposed he was just obstinate that way; he didn't like people doing things for him, least of all someone who had victimized him a thousand times over in the past. But the realistic part of his mind understood that the court was starting to get impatient with him, and the longer he lingered on, he was in danger of violating his parole. He should have been at least a month into his therapy by now, with regular reports sent to his parole officer on his progress. But he had made none, because none of the court-appointed "therapists" seemed to be interested in helping him at all. They were more interested in collecting their checks and getting rid of him as soon as possible. That was why he could never proceed past more than one session with them – he saw through all their bureaucratic bullshit immediately and knew he was just a case number to them. They didn't give a shit about the actual person on the other side.

He studied his father levelly as he finished off his broccoli. Maybe he hadn't been giving credit where credit was due but Paddy _did _seem different. He hadn't really noticed since he'd been in the brig for a year but now that he was out, his father did seem more patient, more…understanding. Or something. Maybe the meetings and the therapy _were_ helping him.

But still – the thought of being analyzed by someone only to be shipped off to someone _else _was annoying. Just more of the same. He didn't have time to waste, and this sounded like a waste of time.

"The doc says also that she can speak to your parole officer to explain your circumstances, and they won't hold the time frame against you," Paddy added, as though he were reading Tommy's mind. "She's doin' this for free, Tom. She gets nothin' out of this except to try and really get you some good help. She's very caring."

"Sounds like you got it bad for your shrink, Pop," Tommy replied, leaning back in the booth. "Pretty sure that's frowned on."

Paddy sighed. "No, she's just a nice person who's good at her job and who's really helped me out, Tommy." He paused as though considering it. "She's young enough to be my kid, but I have to tell ya, she is pretty easy on the eyes." He winked at his stubborn son and tossed some money down on the table for their meals. "Maybe that'll make it a little more pleasant for you."

Tommy shrugged. "Whatever. When do I go in to meet this miracle worker?"

"Tomorrow, mid-morning. Here." Paddy pushed a slip of paper across to him. Tommy reached for it and held it up. In his father's boxy hand, it read "Doc Ortega, 10:30a" and the address. He glanced up.

"I don't really like to do shit on the day of a fight," he said grouchily. "I mean I got to prepare, get warmed up. Get my head in the game."

"What better way to get your head in the game then to unload some of that stress that's floatin' around in it?" Paddy asked. "I think you should go. Besides, it's in the morning. Your fight isn't until the evening. Plenty of time to do your normal fight-day routine."

Tommy knew he'd go. But he just couldn't give Paddy that satisfaction. He didn't know why, but he just _couldn't._ "I'll think about it," he said, and then shoved Paddy's money back across the table at him and handed the waitress a twenty and a five when she appeared. He shook his head when she asked if he wanted change and she smiled and thanked him, clearing their plate and disappearing.

Tommy rose from the booth and stuffed the scrap of paper into his pocket, watching as Paddy got out of the booth a little more slowly than he had. Watching his father move stiffly, a result of an old war wound plus a bad back, always made him feel pity for the old man, even when he was at his angriest. In watching him now, there was no trace of the gruff, rough, violent abusive father and husband he'd been. Just a mild older man…who seemed to care about his son.

Abruptly, Tommy turned on his heel and went for the door, and then pushed it open and held it there as Paddy eventually caught up to him. He cleared his throat.

"How you gettin' home?" he asked Paddy. "You want a ride?"

"No, thanks," Paddy replied. He nodded down the street. "I'm meeting my new lady friend I told you about for a cup of decaf at the café in about a half an hour."

"Oh." Tommy nodded. "Good for you." It came out sounding more condescending than he'd meant it to, and it didn't go unnoticed. Paddy searched his face for a moment, his weathered face scrunched up slightly, and then he sighed.

"Listen, Tommy," Paddy said. "Just do yourself a favor and go see the doc tomorrow. Don't do it for me or for the courts or for anyone. Just go for yourself. All right?"

"Roger that," Tommy replied, and this time it came out as sarcastic as he wanted it to.

For a moment Paddy's face went something like hurt all over, but then it smoothed out and he shook his head. "Just want to see you get some help, son," he said softly. He turned to head down the street to meet his "lady friend". "Get some rest tonight. I'll see you at the fight with Brendan tomorrow night."

Tommy watched his father amble off down the sidewalk, in that curious pained, stiff way. He watched him go until he disappeared into the café where he was meeting his date and suddenly, Tommy had the strangest, most intense urge to break down, right there in the middle of the street, and cry like a fucking baby.

Instead, he turned away and headed for his truck to go home.

* * *

On Friday morning, seated at her desk and staring off into space, lost in thought, Olivia glanced down and realized she was actually wringing her hands.

It was the first time ever since probably her very first few sessions as a therapist a few years back that she'd actually felt _nervous_ at the prospect of meeting with a client. Except that today's session wasn't with a _client_, not really, and it was with someone whom she had met in a strange encounter at a random gym, gotten off to a rocky start with, and whose father she counseled – unbeknownst to said non-client.

It was the shit that movies were made of.

She didn't know anything about Tommy other than what his father had told her; but she knew that he was an angry guy. He hadn't ever behaved that way toward her (all two times they had met), but even through what she believed was _genuine _niceness, she could see that anger lancing through him just below the surface of his quiet, very controlled demeanor. And she expected that when he walked into her office this morning, he was going to be pretty pissed.

She couldn't blame him; if she'd been in his shoes, she knew she would have felt like it was all a massive set-up, some sort of elaborate scenario that would put any other episode of "Intervention" to shame. She would be really, _really fucking_ _pissed_ at all parties involved, and she feared that it might cause damage to his and Paddy's already precarious relationship.

But – he needed help. This poor guy really needed help. That was the clearest, most no-bullshit bottom line point of all of this. And after a long chat with Paddy the day before, she discovered that the old man was willing to do anything to make sure that his son got that help – even if it meant it could be potentially ruinous to their just-blossoming relationship.

"I got faith in you, Doc," he'd said. "That even if Tommy gets mad and don't want nothin' to do with me for a while, he'll get help and come back to me again one day."

"I will do my very best to get him in the right direction," Olivia had said gently. "Just please remember that Rome wasn't built in a day, and we're talking the better part of thirty years of issues to sort through."

"I know," Paddy had said grimly. "Believe me, Doll, I know."

Olivia glanced at her watch. Precisely three minutes had passed since the last time she'd checked it, putting the time at seventeen minutes after ten. She sat at her desk, pumping her leg as she stared into space. She glanced down at herself again, hoping she was dressed appropriately. She never really did the business-casual thing; she wanted her clients to be comfortable and relaxed with her and she had discovered that if she were "dressed up" it tended to put them ill at ease on a weird, subconscious level. So she dressed like she normally did, in her everyday-wear. It was summertime, and she tended to get a little bohemian in the summertime (punk in the fall, "lower east side New York black" in the winter, and "revivalist punk with a touch of spring pastel" in the spring) so she wore a long, sheer flowing emerald green skirt, slit on each side to the knee, lined with a mid-thigh length underskirt for modesty's sake. She topped it with a flowing, boxy snow leopard print tank top, and flat black sandals. She'd debated on whether or not to remove her facial piercing, but then decided he'd already seen it anyway, so left it in. Her long hair was up in its standard ponytail, and a pair of black cat-eye glasses rested on the bridge of her nose.

It was about as professional as she cared to get.

She told herself that the nervousness she was feeling had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Tommy also happened to be obscenely good-looking, and that when she thought of him, she pictured his bare back, with taut muscles sliding agilely under the sweat-beaded skin, and it sent warm shivers straight down through her belly into her long-untouched lady parts. _Nothing to do with that at all._

Her phone buzzed suddenly then, blessedly pulling her from her soon-to-be inappropriate reverie, and she glanced at the number. It was a text message from her father. She frowned off of instinct, a sense of dread automatically filling her. It was her typical Pavlovian response to any sort of communication from her father. She opened the application for her text messages and read the brief note.

_$500 in your account. Please manage your money better. 29 is a little old to still be coming to your father for money._

Olivia gritted her teeth and managed to make a polite reply of "_thanks Dad"_. He did this to her every month – gave her money, disregarded her educational aspirations and endeavors, and then gave her a hard time about it and made her feel bad. She wished for the umpteenth time that she could stop accepting his money – but for now, it just wasn't possible. And she wasn't sure that she agreed with his last statement. Granted, every parent wanted their child to grow up and be successful and be self-sufficient – and that was her goal. But she knew that if she ever had kids, she didn't care how old they were – if they needed something, she would be there. Always. Period.

Like her mother always had been there for her.

Olivia sighed as she thought of Yessenia. Three years ago, she'd been diagnosed with breast cancer, and within nine months of her diagnosis, she was gone. It had devastated Olivia, who had been very close to her mother her entire life. Even through it all, through the pain and the sickness of the cancer and the treatments, losing her glorious mane of dark chocolate brown hair and her eyebrows and eyelashes, withering away to the point where she could no longer do anything without assistance, her mother had remained unfailingly positive, hopeful, and optimistic. That was the true face of grace under fire, Olivia thought. The amount of immeasurable strength that it took someone going through something so debilitating to remain positive and happy was inspiring, to say the very least. And on the day she buried her mother, according to her final wishes, Olivia had tried to stay dry-eyed and smiling as long as she could, because that's what her mother had wanted.

"Send me off with happiness and love, _mi hija_," Yessenia had said, three weeks before her death. "You must not be sad – I am going home. I want to look down from heaven and see you smiling. No tears. You promise me? No tears."

So Olivia had held it together for the entire service, being strong for her relatives, being the shoulder _they_ cried on, passing _them_ tissues. She had needed to take a quick break to herself before the reception began to find a private bathroom in the cemetery office building to wail and sob out her grief, before cleaning her face, fixing her hair, reapplying her lipstick, and going out to serve the homemade _tamales, arroz con pollo, _and _tres leches _to her family and her mother's friends, with a smile on her face.

And then, she had gone home to her mother's house – now just _her_ house – and drunk half a bottle of tequila until she passed out.

Her father, Miguel, had not come for the funeral. He couldn't be bothered, it would seem, and he and Yessenia had been divorced for so many years – at least, that was his rationale. He had been too busy in Miami with his new wife to come and say goodbye to the woman he had been married to for fifteen years. He had sent a floral wreath, though. With a ribbon that said "With Deepest Sympathy".

Olivia was fairly certain she had never forgiven him for that.

She rose abruptly from her desk to get the coffee going. Next to a shot of any sort of liquor, it was the next best thing.

As she prepared the machine and the grounds, she resumed thinking about her rapidly approaching session with Tommy, and a new burst of nervousness filled her belly. She'd never "conspired" with anyone to help a family member before, and it made her feel a little bit guilty. She just hoped that whatever happened, he would not turn and walk out. That would effectively end anything in the way of getting him the help he obviously needed, and it might really screw things up between him and Paddy – irrevocably.

She wondered idly how all of this would play into her cleaning job. Things could definitely get awkward – but since she wasn't his actual therapist, there weren't technically any rules being broken; at least, none that she was aware of. And she simply couldn't afford to quit Colt's now. She thought again of the text from her father and clenched her jaw in irritation. The sooner she could get to a point where she didn't need _jack shit _from that man – the better.

She finished stirring her cream and sugar into her mug and poured out a plain mug of black coffee for Tommy. She wasn't sure how he liked his coffee, but it all started out the same way, and he could add to it later.

She almost dropped his mug when she heard the familiar rapping sound of knuckles on the doorframe – except these were a little hesitant. She took a deep silent breath through her nose, and willed herself to calm down.

"Um – I'm Tommy Conlon," a deep voice said behind her. "I had a…um, an appointment I guess." His voice was deep and low and quiet and it was like Olivia was hearing it for the first time despite the fact that they'd talked – sort of – on two other occasions. It was different in the confines of a small, quiet office, and she could hear the way it was a little raspy, a little nervous, and a whole lot of velvet. She was ashamed to admit to herself that she felt her clitoris throb, just a teeny tiny little bit, at the sound. _You are not off to a good start,_ she admonished herself. That the man's voice alone could set her off that way did not bode well for her.

She took another deep breath and hefted both mugs, and turned around slowly to face him. She watched his face carefully and found herself oddly fascinated, in sort of a detached way, at the way his expression changed.

It went from a mask of practiced calm, to a flash of recognition, to total confusion, to grudging realization, and then complete, utter, _deep, _all-consuming irritation and anger.

The nervous nellies in her belly fluttered violently again at the last expression. _Oh, help me._ He. Was. _Not_. _Happy._

Olivia swallowed hard, keeping her eyes locked on his, and took a step toward him.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hey guys. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing - I truly appreciate it. Please do the same on this one. I hope you enjoy it, and have a lovely weekend. Xoxo**

**Chapter 9**

For a moment, Tommy was utterly confused, and decided he'd walked into the wrong place. He had to have. There was no other explanation.

Because Olivia, the _cleaning lady from the gym_, was standing in an office he was _sure_ said something about a Licensed Mental Health Therapist on the outside of it. And she was a _cleaning lady. _The hot one whose ass he shamefully couldn't help ogling every time he saw it, the one with the piercing between the corner of her mouth and her chin, with the tattoo on her hand, winding up her forearm. She couldn't be a shrink. And the sign on the door _had said, _Licensed Mental Health Therapist. Right? Come to think of it –

He leaned his head back and looked at the sign again to be sure of what he read and that he wasn't losing his mind. There it was. "Olivia Ortega, LMHT." On the plaque-thingy. Right there by the door. How had he missed that?

He had just glanced at the last name to make sure it matched what Paddy had written down on the scrap of paper. Ortega? Roger, Ortega. Golden.

He didn't necessarily have any expectations of the shrink, but the very last fucking thing he expected to see was the pretty cleaning girl with the spectacular ass from the gym standing in front of him wearing some funky skirt and glasses and holding two mugs of coffee, looking at him like Tess used to when he first started living at his brother's house.

Like he was an animal, about to snap.

On the tail end of the realization that the _cleaning lady _from _Colt's_, of all fucking places, was his _shrink¸_ and not only was she _his_ shrink but also his _father's shrink,_ he understood it was too coincidental to be a coincidence, and a sudden blaze of fury roared through his veins and he realized he was glaring at her.

They'd fucking _set him up_. They had _tricked him_.

For a moment, he was too furious to do anything but stand there and glower through her as he thought about his father. Had he sent her to the gym to keep an eye on her? Worked out some scheme with Colt? Had she been studying him and talking about him and making notes while she was pretending to clean the windows? Had she snapped on him that first day just to see how he behaved under pressure? And that was how she knew to deal with him when he'd flipped out on her the other day, he realized. That was how she knew just _what_ to say and _how_ to say it and how to look at him and how to stand. And for fuck's sake, no cleaning lady in the history of cleaning ladies ever looked like _that _or had an ass like _that._ It was all a plot, a set-up, a scheme to get him here, to get his head shrunk. This chick, his father, Colt, maybe even Brendan. Everyone – everyone had set him up, played him like a fucking violin, and made him look and feel stupid.

He was so mad he forgot how to speak for a moment.

Then the shrink started talking, low, calm, keeping her eyes on him. Sounding a whole lot like she had the other day. 'Cause that's what shrinks did. She took a step toward him. "I know, I know," she was saying gently. "I'm not exactly what you pictured – fat old white guy in a cardigan, right?"

Tommy glared again and finally found his voice. "I certainly didn't expect the fucking _cleaning lady _from Colt's," he said, his voice shaking with the force of his anger. "What the fuck is this? A set-up? You and my dad? You think I'm fucking dumb or something?"

"No," she said firmly, and she kept walking toward him. "No, I definitely don't think you're stupid, and no, this isn't a set-up."

She was really going to stand here and lie to him? "I'm outta here," he muttered, and turned, striding out of the doorway and down the hall.

"Wait!" She hurried out the doorway after him, still holding the mugs, and coffee sloshed out of both of them and splattered to the dark carpet. Tommy stopped, momentarily surprised that she had actually tried to _chase _him down, and watched the place on the carpet where the droplets disappeared, his jaw clenching. He realized, amazingly, that he didn't want to be rude – _rude! – _even though he was so fucking pissed he could taste it.

And, damn it all to hell, she did look adorable in those glasses.

"What the hell is all this?" he demanded, his voice going quiet and soft. It was the tone he usually reserved for people he _really _didn't like. In fact he was pretty sure he used it with Mad Dog the other day.

She sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. "Would you please come inside my office?" she asked. "I know you are angry right now, and I know you don't know what's going on. Can you come inside, and at least stay long enough to let me explain?"

She turned her body sideways, moving back toward her office, but her head was still turned toward him as she stared at him expectantly. His eyes slipped involuntarily to her ass. _Dammit._ He sighed in defeat, which she clearly took as him acquiescing her request, because she turned and headed down the hall for her office. He watched the way her ass moved under the thin material of the skirt and was distracted enough for a second, just a second, to forget what he'd been angry about. The round globes of flesh moved unhindered under the skirt, the muscles tightening and releasing with each step and he tilted his head. He didn't see any panty lines. Did she have on a thong, or nothing at all? Then he remembered what he was doing here, and he got pissed off all over again.

Nonetheless, he followed her back into the office. If for no other reason than because he had this really weird desire to not be rude. And it would have been rude to just turn around and take off. He had no idea where this sudden urge to be polite came from, but he also realized he was thinking a little of his mom. And Ma had raised him to be a nice guy – even when people were _fucking with him._

He stepped into the office again, frowning hard as he glanced around. It was a pretty small office, with a desk near the back, some counter space to the side with a coffee maker on it and a cupboard above it against the wall, and a seating area – a sofa and chair facing each other across a coffee table. There were a couple bookshelves filled with books, some plants, and that was about it.

Olivia was standing next to the chair, still watching him alertly as he looked around. Finally, he looked at her. She offered him a tentative smile and held out one of the mugs. "Coffee?"

She'd been toting them around since he'd walked in. Though he wasn't in the mood for coffee, he thought the polite thing to do would be to take it. He took the mug from her with a very slight nod of thanks.

"Do you like cream and sugar?" she asked. He shook his head no. She gestured to the sofa. "Would you have a seat?"

_If she asks me one more question without answering one of mine – _

Tommy dropped down on the sofa and set the mug on the table in front of him. He looked at his lap, but he couldn't help glancing up at Olivia as she arranged herself in her chair. He decided the whole thing had to have been a sham; a _cleaning lady_? _Really?_

She took a sip from her mug and set it on the table, then met his eyes. "I imagine you're feeling very angry right now, like you've been set-up," she began.

"Pretty sure I said as much," Tommy said abruptly, folding his arms over his chest.

"Okay. And that's totally fair. But you weren't. Set up, that is."

He looked at her scornfully. "You expect me to believe that? I know you're my dad's shrink."

"I'm his therapist," Olivia corrected gently. "And I did not know who you were until you told me your full name at the gym."

"Yeah, nice cover, by the way," Tommy added, beginning to pump one of his legs. Damn, but he just wanted to get the fuck out of there. And Pop had thought _this _would be good for him on _fight day?_

"Cover?" Olivia repeated. "My job at the gym isn't a 'cover'."

"No?" Tommy asked, and he was leg-pumping, arm-crossing, finger-tapping like mad. So agitated. "I thought doctors make shitloads of money. They don't need to pretend to be cleaning ladies."

"I'm not a doctor yet," Olivia replied patiently. "I'm a grad student."

Tommy froze in all his fidgeting. "So you don't know what the fuck you're even doing?"

Olivia moistened her lips, folding them inward for a moment, and Tommy wondered if he was starting to get on _her_ nerves. If so, good. "I am a licensed mental health therapist," she said softly.

"Yeah, I saw that on the door."

"That's not exactly the same thing as a Doctor," she went on patiently. "I will get _that_ title in a few months, once I complete the requirements of my program. So I _do _know what I'm doing, and I _can_ help you, but no, I am _not _a doctor." She smiled a little at him, and he tried to ignore the sweetness of it and looked away. "I'm a broke college student who knows what she's talking about. Therefore, the job at the gym was…_is_….totally legit. You were not set-up."

"I don't believe in coincidences," Tommy said. "You bein' my father's shrink – excuse me, _therapist – _and then you workin' at the gym and me comin' here – that's all a little too coincidental."

"Well, like I said, the job at the gym is precisely what it is," Olivia said. "I really actually need that money. As for your dad – yes. I've been his therapist for a while now. He started coming to see me after his AA meetings. I do a lot of work with vets who have substance-abuse problems. And he talked to me a lot about his boys. One in particular, who he said lately has been going through a rough time." Tommy watched as she reached up to pull her glasses off her nose, and then her pale green eyes met his, shining with sincerity.

_Don't you know when you're bein' worked?_ he chided himself. But he couldn't seem to look away from her face now. She had really pretty eyes, a pale jade green color tinged with gold and ringed in black. He hadn't really noticed before how pretty they were. And they complemented her naturally deep tanned skin very nicely.

"He mentioned that you've had a hard time getting your court-ordered outpatient therapy under way, and asked if I could help you," Olivia was saying. "I can't be your therapist, Tommy, but I can evaluate you for a couple of months and then make a referral. I have some really, really awesome colleagues who are highly respected in this field, have made worlds of difference with their clients, and I _know_ I can find you someone who can help you."

Her voice was so sweet and nice, Tommy noticed, so full of caring and so soothing that he wanted to believe her. He really did. "I don't think anybody can help anyone as fucked up as me," he said gruffly. "I'm just tryin' to check a box here to stay out of prison for good."

Olivia nodded slowly. "Okay," she said quietly. "That's totally fair. But maybe if you keep an open mind a little bit to the possibility that you _can_ get some help, and that you're _not_ as fucked up as you think you might be, things might really change in a way you never thought they could."

_She said "fucked up", _Tommy thought in wonder. Therapists cussed?

He swiped a hand over his face and sighed tiredly. "Just – I just feel –" He stopped, struggling to make sense.

Olivia leaned forward. "What do you feel?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. _Don't shrink me._ "I just feel like between you and my dad, you're tryin' to get one over on me."

Olivia bit her lip and nodded. "Again, _totally_ understand why you feel that way. Tommy, I solemnly promise you that I did not know who you were before I started working at Colt's. I didn't know who you were up until the other day when you told me your first and last name. By then, yes – I had agreed to help you out for your father, but I still didn't know that you, 'the guy from the gym', were _Paddy Conlon's_ son Tommy. And I never mentioned to Paddy that I had met you before today. Okay? I wasn't planted in the gym like some undercover agent, and no one is trying to get one over on you or do anything else but try and get you some help. Okay?"

She was looking at him in what he was beginning to think of as _that way_ again – her eyes had gone a little wide and were full of sincerity. He heard most of what she'd said, but then he'd found himself distracted by her mouth – her really pretty, nicely shaped and well-cut mouth, accessorized by that little piercing thing an inch from the corner. Her lips were a little pouty and really pink and plump, the upper lip just slightly fuller than the bottom one, but not by much. You could only tell that if you really looked – and Tommy was really looking. _Shit._

He glanced down at his lap and frowned again. "If you say so."

"I do." She smiled at him.

"So how does all this work?" Tommy asked, gesturing vaguely between them.

"Well, we're just gonna talk," Olivia said with a shrug. "We're gonna do a lot of talking. Well," she paused to amend herself, "_you're _going to do a lot of talking."

"About what?"

"About anything," Olivia replied. "Stuff that's bothering you. Stuff you're struggling with. Your thoughts. Your feelings. Whatever you want to talk about."

"What if I got nothin' to say?" he asked, just to be belligerent.

She smiled at him. "Then you have nothing to say. Although I don't for one second believe that you have nothing to say."

"I'm not a real talkative guy," Tommy replied.

She kept smiling at him. "That doesn't mean you have nothing to say."

He didn't like the way those words made him feel. And he felt exhausted. "So, what, you're gonna sort through all my problems?" he asked sarcastically. "Fix my daddy issues?"

"Do you _have_ daddy issues?" she asked.

_Fuck. _He shrugged. "Don't everybody?" he quipped, trying to play it off.

She gave him a strange look, one that made him feel like she actually understood – like on a personal level. _Hmm. That's interesting. A therapist with her own daddy issues. _"No," she replied softly. "As to your other question, my goal isn't to fix all your problems. No one can really do that. My goal is to pinpoint your major issues, and find exactly the right person for you to help you sort through them, so you can deal with them better and ultimately minimize the impact that they have on your life."

Tommy barked out a bitter laugh. "No offense, Doc, but I'm not sure you got what it takes to pinpoint and minimize my bullshit. That's a job I wouldn't wish on nobody."

She smiled again and tilted her head, giving him a long, pensive look. "You remind me of your dad," she said finally, and that shut him up laughing quickly. "He felt the same way you do now. 'It's too bad, there's too much hurt, there's too many problems, it'll take too long, it's too hard.'" She took another sip of coffee. "I'd like to tell you that the progress your father has made since we started working together has been nothing short of incredible, Tommy. You just have to find the right person that cares, and you have to believe in yourself."

"So, what, _you_ care?" he asked, and that bitterness was back in his throat, grating his voice. "_You_ believe in me?"

"I do care," Olivia replied. "I care because I care about your dad, and he loves you. He's got a lot to atone for with you and your brother. But he loves you dearly, Tommy, and he wants the best for you."

_Too much._ He rose abruptly to his feet and she quickly did the same, looking a little startled at his sudden movement. "Look, I know I really don't have a choice in the matter 'cause it's either _this_ or go back to the brig, but, not for nothin', I'm really not in the mood for all this right now. I got a big fight tonight and I need to get my head in the game."

He looked down at her, and noted for the first time how small she appeared next to him. He felt like he towered over her, but he knew he wasn't that tall of a guy. She was so – _small_ and _sweet_, so tender. He tilted his head as he studied her, picturing someone trying to hurt her. She was a good person, he decided, the thought seeming to come out of nowhere. He felt like he could see her soul in her eyes, and she was good.

Too bad she couldn't help him.

But she was nice enough, and he was tired of walking into a new shrink's office every other day, so maybe he'd just stick it out and check his box and stay out of prison. No one could deal with his shit except for him, and he wouldn't put it off on this poor sweet small woman.

"Are you sure?" she asked hesitantly. She glanced at the clock on the wall. "We still have like, forty minutes. We can talk for a little while."

"No, thanks," he replied curtly, and realized he could smell her perfume. It was a light, sweet scent, but tinged with enough fancy to make him understand it was _perfume_ she was wearing and not that fruity body mist stuff that girls got for dirt cheap. She smelled _good_. "I really can't today."

"Can we make an appointment for Monday then?" she asked. She stepped around him without waiting for an answer, heading for her desk. "I'm free at around six in the evening." She looked at him expectantly, her hand holding a pen and poised above a notebook calendar.

He shrugged. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Whatever." He tried not to stare at the way she was bending over the desk to write in the notebook. She jotted the appointment down, then grabbed a little card and wrote on it. She straightened up and handed it to him. _Monday, August 12, 6p, _it read.

He glanced up. "Don't you clean on Monday mornings?"

She lifted her brows a little. "Yes, I do," she replied. "Mondays and Thursdays."

He glanced down at the card again. "You're not gonna, uh – tell anybody about –" He trailed off.

She shook her head firmly. "No. Absolutely not. You're not officially my client, but the rules still apply. What you say here doesn't go outside the walls, except to the person I decide to refer you to, and you would have told them what you'll be telling me anyway."

Tommy nodded, feeling a little relief at her words. The last thing he needed was for it to get out that he was seeing a shrink – J.J. Riley probably didn't want some kook fighting in the tournament. And he had enough problems getting the Sparta creator to take him seriously anyway.

"So no worries," Olivia said lightly. "And we don't even need to talk at the gym, if it makes you uncomfortable. We can _not_ know each other. It's not a problem, okay?"

He nodded. "Thanks. Listen, I need to take off."

She nodded, still seeming to be a bit disappointed that he didn't want to stay for a full session. "Good luck on your fight tonight."

He glanced at her. "Thanks," he said slowly. He held her gaze for a beat, thinking again that she had a sweet face to go with her sweet soul and heart (and, her sweet ass. It had to be noted.), and that there was no way she was going to be able to help him. "Later."

He left her office with little ceremony, stuffing the card she gave him into his pocket. He wasn't sure how he felt. He was still kind of pissed, although now he understood that he really didn't have a reason to be. He still felt like therapy was pretty much all bullshit, and it wouldn't help him out really at all. He was only doing this to stay out of prison, nothing more.

Although, he had to admit – he didn't feel the same leaving her office today as he had felt leaving the other shrinks' offices. He didn't feel hopeful, and still thought that it was "so cute" she thought she could help him, but he didn't feel as dejected as he normally did. He didn't feel as…hopeless.

Which in and of itself was a funny thought, because there _was _no hope for him. He was doomed to bear these crosses for the rest of his life. It was just the hand he was dealt and there was nothing that he, or anybody else, could do to change it. It was what it was.

At least, he consoled himself, spending the next couple months with a pretty, sweet-smelling woman with a gloriously round ass, a pretty face and a nice demeanor wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. It sure as hell beat some crusty old guy in a too-tight cardigan telling him to talk about his feelings.

His initial reaction had been to call Pop as soon as he was free and let him have it, really get in his ass. But despite the fact that he still felt somewhat annoyed by the whole situation, he knew that Pop hadn't done anything wrong. If he called him and gave him what-for anyway, _he'd_ be in the wrong.

Instead, he went to the gym. He hadn't been by yet today which was out of the norm for him – but with his appointment with Olivia, he hadn't had time to do more than get an easy four-mile run in and eat breakfast. Now, he needed to go in and talk to Colt about the interview and tell him that yes, he would do it, and to go over any details he was missing for tonight's fight. Then, he would go home, eat lunch, rest, relax, and wait for Brendan to get into town. Brendan had said he'd be by around four, and he'd be staying overnight at Tommy's apartment. They would all eat dinner, and then head over to the West Track Club. Tommy would only require minimal time to get ready to pound some poor fuck's face into submission.

He walked through the gym and found Colt in his office. For once, he wasn't on the phone. He was at his desk, typing away on his laptop, and glanced up when Tommy knocked briefly on the doorframe. He grinned and rose from his seat, stepping around his desk.

"Tommy, my man!" he exclaimed. "How you doin', bro? You think about our talk yesterday?"

"Yeah," Tommy replied quietly. He shrugged. "If I want Sparta, what choice do I have, right?"

"That's right," Colt said, and reached out to squeeze Tommy's trap muscle. "That's right. Now you're thinkin' like a businessman. I mean, yeah, the subject is hard to talk about, but you can do it. You're out of prison, you're back on your feet, doin' well. They're gonna love you, man." He reached behind him to grab his phone. "Let me get my calendar up. Okay. So the ad for the gym, we're shootin' that on Tuesday. Evening. And the interview for the papers, I want to just go ahead and get that out of the way, so I'm gonna set it up for Monday afternoon. Like a lunch meeting. I know a guy at the paper, the sports department."

"_Monday?"_ Tommy exclaimed. "That's – that's _soon,_ Colt."

Colt glanced up. "Why let it drag on?" he asked rhetorically, shrugging. "Let's just get it over with. The sooner we get this over with the sooner we get you on the roster, the sooner we get you pumped up, get the sponsors to look at you. Aside from the tournament itself, Tommy, there's endorsement deals out the _ass_ to be had, man. I want to get you locked into a couple contracts. Some good ones. Listen, I'll go with you to the interview, all right? We'll go to the nice bar and grill place downtown. My treat. You do all the talking but I won't let it get out of hand, okay? I got your back, bro."

Tommy nodded reluctantly. He wasn't expecting to have to do the interview so soon, but Colt was right. It _was_ better to just get it, and the ad, over with and out of the way so he could focus solely on training. And because he didn't want to have to think about it any more than he already was.

"Great." Colt got up from the desk and clapped Tommy's shoulder. "How you feelin' about tonight? You good, everything good?"

"I'm cool," Tommy replied with a shrug. "I know what I'm supposed to do today."

"That's what I like to hear from my champ. Hey, I got your music all set up and stuff tonight too."

Initially Tommy had refused the idea of walk-out music. He had eschewed it at the first Sparta, and he saw no reason why he needed to have it now. But Colt had said that it didn't look right, and that J.J. Riley wanted Tommy to be as "normal" (the _fuck_ did that even mean?) as possible. So he had tasked him with looking through his iPod to pick a song. Tommy had reluctantly settled on "Bulls on Parade" by Rage Against the Machine.

"All right. I'll make some calls, get this shit set up. You go home, get some rest, eat good, hydrate. Your pops and your brother comin' tonight, right? I'll make sure to have some passes ready for them. Front row seats."

"Thanks," Tommy said with a nod, and clasped hands with Colt before heading out the door.

As he hit the street to go back to his truck and go home, a sense of familiarity rushed over Tommy. He felt like his circumstances currently were grim, but something about getting back into the gym, prepping for a fight – his first in over a year – and moving toward the big tournament with the big cash prize felt like coming home, at least a little tiny bit. He was back in his element, doing what he was good at.

_Smashin' guys' faces to bits like an animal_, he thought, feeling a sudden, strange rush that maybe, just maybe, after the tournament he ought to think about doing something else. _That's all me._

Maybe it was something to talk about with his shrink on Monday.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hi, all you lovely readers. Sorry for the long time with no update. Things are still cray-cray for me. I'm going to try to update as often as I can and please forgive me if several days (or you know, like a week) go by without an update. I haven't forgotten you or the stories! Thanks for hanging in there with me. Xoxo**

**Chapter 10**

_"__Come wit' it now!"_

The raucous opening strains of Tommy's chosen song roared out through the venue, echoing in his ears, his brain, and even into his bones. He flinched involuntarily – it was so loud inside the West Track Club between the music, the people, the announcers. His nerves fluttered, but it wasn't because he was nervous over the fight – _fuck that, this guy is gettin' smoked – _it was the over-stimulation in the room that was making him jumpy.

He shook it off, focusing on his feet as walked toward the cage, the hood of his black sweatshirt up over his head, Colt walking behind him and gripping his shoulders with excitement, grinning broadly. Tommy hopped into the cage, Colt jogging up the stairs after him, and he tuned out the referee calling out his stats as he stripped off his sweatshirt and shook out his muscles. He glanced over at his opponent; young black guy, maybe mid-twenties. He was lithe and muscular, covered in tattoos, and he looked hungry. He was staring at Tommy, his lips moving as though he were talking shit, but it was way too loud in the room for Tommy to be able to hear. And, oh yeah – he didn't really give a fuck what the guy had to say.

_You're ate-up, son,_ he thought, shaking his head. The guy was full of bravado, and clearly more intent on putting on a show than winning a fight. And that was just fine with Tommy – the distraction would make it easier for him to take the kid out.

He snapped back to reality at the sound of his name, and then glanced at Colt, who seemed to be grinning even wider.

"Weighing in at 182 pounds, standing five feet, ten inches tall, Sparta I's very own Tommy 'One Shot One Kill' Conlon!"

The crowd then proceeded to go fucking _crazy_, and Tommy glanced around, slightly amazed. People recognized _him?_ For the first time, he noticed signs in the crowd with his name on them. Most of them were held by girls and had hearts on them and funny sayings and marriage proposals and other dumb shit that he felt was more appropriate for a teeny bopper concert than a fucking MMA fight in a small, shitty club in Pittsburgh on a Friday night.

He turned to Colt. "'One Shot One Kill'?" he asked in his ear. "Really?"

Colt shrugged, still grinning. "Hey, man, I thought you'd appreciate it. Consider it a patriotic ode to your Marine days. Shit, look around, man! These bitches are _loving_ it. You can have your choice of any pussy in this room tonight!" He winked at Tommy and grabbed the back of his head, touching their foreheads together. "_After _you win this fight. Just keep your head in the game, Tommy. Nail this little fucker to the floor and then let's _get it _at Sparta II, all right? Make me proud, man. C'mon – let's _go!"_

Colt exited the cage, going to sit next to Paddy and Brendan in the front row. Tommy glanced back at his family and his manager, and all three gave him some sort of non-verbal support – a nod and an intense stare from Brendan, a thumbs-up from Paddy, and a grin and a wink from Colt.

He turned back to face his opponent. He was pretty sure the kid's name was DeShawn Something-or-another – he didn't catch either the last name or the nickname. It didn't really matter; he'd be on the floor of the cage in short order. And it wasn't even cockiness that made him think so, Tommy reasoned to himself, inwardly shrugging as he and DeShawn squared off. It was just the way he personally got down.

_One Shot One Kill_, Tommy thought, mulling the name over in his mind. It was arrogantly violent. He supposed that, his general dislike of the nickname aside, it _did_ suit him.

The ref placed his hands inches apart, palms facing inward, and looked between the two fighters as he quickly ran down the rules. When he checked to make sure each fighter understood, he nodded sharply. "Go to war!"

Tommy moved calmly almost off of instinct, keeping his eyes glued to DeShawn's shoulders and torso and ignoring his face completely. He was vaguely aware that the kid was talking at him, more shit-talking, but he tuned it out, focusing. It was a little harder to tune out the roar of the crowd around him in the little venue, but he zeroed in on the kid's shoulders and stomach, and waited.

DeShawn struck first, as he expected him to, and Tommy let him, the strike glancing off his left shoulder. It pulsed a little, echoing the ache he sometimes still felt after his dislocation and subsequent surgery. He was a little impressed – okay. The kid was strong.

_Shake it off_, he thought, his shoulder still pulsing a little bit. _It's in your mind. Push that shit to the side._ He did, and the little ache subsided. He met DeShawn's eyes finally and gave the kid a grim half-smirk, letting him know the blow stung a little.

And that he was going to answer for it pretty soon.

DeShawn tried to seem unfazed by the eye contact, but Tommy knew that it unnerved him a little. The young fighter hopped on the balls of his feet, then rushed Tommy again. Tommy prepared for some kicks, anticipating them from the way the muscles were tensing, and he got them, DeShawn trying to land the heel of his foot against Tommy's quads. Instead, he got grabbed by said heel and flipped over and slammed. Tommy danced casually away, the crowd cheering loudly and making him want to flinch again, and he waited patiently for his opponent to get to his feet.

Suddenly a piercing whistle blasted through the room and Tommy did flinch again this time, his eyes squeezing shut for the briefest instant against the sound. It was over in a split second, but the noise reverberated through his brain like a gunshot.

_So fucking loud,_ he thought, wanting to shake his head as though to clear it, but didn't. _Why do they have to be so fucking loud?_

His heart rate increased a little bit, and he pushed back the sudden nervous feeling he felt stirring in the pit of his belly. Time to focus; DeShawn was back on his feet. The kid shook his head a little, as though he were still trying to piece together what had just happened. He also looked really pissed off.

Tommy waited, watching.

DeShawn engaged him again, this time landing a strike to Tommy's cheek. He was going for the temple, but Tommy jerked his head and moved at the last second. He absorbed the shock of the blow, and then returned with a punishing strike to the kid's liver, and his knee buckled accordingly. Tommy pivoted on the balls of his feet and sent a sharp backhand strike into the kid's jaw, and then leaned forward and shot his back leg out lightning fast, foot flexed, into the kid's ribs. DeShawn flew back across the cage, into the ropes, and then crumpled to the floor.

Tommy waited, hopping from foot to foot, the edges of his nerves beginning to unravel as the din of the crowd rose higher and louder. It just sounded like fucking _screaming_ – one long, loud, continuous scream. Like somebody was getting murdered or something.

Instantly he regretted the thought as soon as he had it. _Manny. The guys. Blown to pieces. And it's just me and I'm alone and I'm screaming and I don't even know that I'm screaming. Not even when my voice gives out and my throat hurts – I still can't figure out. Why couldn't I figure it out? Why couldn't I stop it? Why couldn't they see me – we tried to get their attention. Why the fuck couldn't they see me? _

His heart rate was high, higher than it should have been for the physical effort he'd just exerted. He was dimly aware that DeShawn was miraculously getting to his feet on the other side of the cage.

_The guys couldn't get to their feet. Some of them didn't even _have _feet. _

"Tommy, get your fucking head in the game! What did I say?"

At the sound of his name, Tommy shook off his reverie and glanced around, panicked. Who was calling for him? Was it Drill Instructor Holmes getting in his ass again? Or was it Lt. Colonel Santana? Santana, he decided. Definitely Santana – only he had that lilting bark that made every Marine who heard it just _know_ he was about to get his ass handed to him.

"Yes, sir," he mumbled. _No. Wrong. Not Santana. Colt. It's Colt._ He locked eyes with his manager, who was staring at him like he had an elbow coming out of his ass.

Then the ref was at his side. Looking at him like a concerned father would, had Tommy ever had one of _those._ Why was Pop even here?

"You okay there, son?" the ref asked him quietly.

_Shake it off, Conlon. You're fucking up big time here. _"Yes, sir," he replied automatically. "Roger that."

The ref looked at him with more concern this time, but nodded hesitantly. "All right. Go to war!"

That kid was rushing him again, and Tommy shuffled his feet and feinted right, then spun left and came up sharply, landing a heavy uppercut strike to the kid's already bruising ribs. DeShawn winced hard, absolute agony evident in every line of him as his body folded slightly to accommodate the hurt side. It was with something almost like pity that Tommy drove his gloved fist down against the kid's temple, landing the strike that DeShawn had failed to land on him, and then swept his feet out from under him to expedite his journey to the floor of the mat again. His opponent immediately curled into a fetal position.

Tommy backed off, swiping his fingers over the sweat on his upper lip, and glanced down. The kid was making feeble motions to try to get up, but it seemed pretty unlikely as the ref started counting down the seconds. It had been a little rough, longer than he personally appreciated his fights to be, Tommy reasoned to himself, but for his first one in over a year and fresh out of the brig, it wasn't too bad. Plus, he'd won, and that was the icing on the cake.

Then he winced as the crowd's volume cranked up another notch. _There they go again,_ he thought miserably. Damn, but he couldn't wait to get out of here. His nerves were coming apart faster than he cared to admit. And dammit if he wasn't hungry again.

_How long does it take to count?_ he wondered, annoyed. _C'mon. Let's go let's go let's go let's go let's – _

The bright spotlight that had been shining on DeShawn's crumpled body suddenly shifted to him, and the beam of super-bright light hit him right in the eyes. He froze.

_They were calling out to me, the other ground unit that saw the bombs drop. They were calling out for any of us that were still alive. I was crouching over what was left of Manny's body and I was crying and freaking the fuck out – what the fuck just happened how did this happen what do I do what do I tell Pilar he can't be dead what happens now what the fuck what the fuck – _

_"__Who's that? Is that Conlon? Jesus _Christ,_ what the fuck happened? Goddamn it, we just lost a buncha guys…holy fuck…"_

_They swept the flashlight over me and it went right into my eyes and I was blinded and for a minute I thought I was dead and seeing that "light" that Ma used to talk about when she was sickest, when she knew the end was coming. I thought I saw the "light" and I was gone, I was gone and dead, and did I actually get blown up too? Did I just not know what the fuck happened to me? Dear God, make it stop, the bodies that are still bleeding out, and I can smell the death and the burned meat on a human body and oh, God – Manny's fucking gone, he's gone and the kids are fatherless and what the fuck am I gonna do who am I gonna talk to at night, who's gonna help me and make me laugh and holy FUCK what is going on and why did I have to come here and I just want my mom – I just want my mom – _

"_Tommy!" _

Was that live or was that in his head? Was he in his head right now? Where was he? Why was there so much fucking _noise_ – _God, make it stop, make it all – _

"Tommy!"

A different voice. One he recognized. It was Brendan. Tommy blinked in confusion. Wait – why the fuck was Brendan in Iraq? How was that possible?

"Tommy – _move,_ little brother! _Move!"_

_Move?_

In a rush, he came back to himself – back to Pittsburgh, back to the West Track Club, back to the cage and to his opponent. DeShawn was back on his feet, and coming at him, and Tommy realized it a moment too late. He tried to dodge, but DeShawn grabbed him, slinging an elbow around his throat and using his clever, agile feet to get Tommy to the ground and wrapped up in a sleeper hold and in that moment, feeling the kid's arms and legs squeezing tight like a vise around his limbs, Tommy knew he'd lost.

_Fuck_.

His strength was suddenly gone, as well as his desire to win this competition. It was like air leaking out of a balloon – he just didn't give a shit anymore. He felt DeShawn's forearm squeezing triumphantly against his throat, his legs locking Tommy into place. _Fuck, this kid is strong. _Tommy tried to move in vain, and felt the kid's limbs squeeze even tighter around him. He wasn't going anywhere. He just prolonged the inevitable, waiting until his air ran out before politely tapping the kid on the forearm. As soon as DeShawn felt the light thumps on his arm, he released Tommy and hopped to his feet, whooping, his arms raised above his head.

The crowd was in an uproar now, some shouting out their support for DeShawn and other making their displeasure at Tommy's loss known even more loudly. The last of Tommy's nerves came unraveled and he doubled over, his knuckles pressing against the floor of the mat as he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to do more than hunch over and pray for it all to stop.

_God, if you can hear me – please just help me out – please just make this stop. I want to get out of here, I don't want to be in the desert anymore, get me out of here, let me go home, let somebody help me please –_

Suddenly, warm hands were on his shoulders, gripping gently and firmly at the same time, and, startled, Tommy's eyes snapped open and he looked up.

It was Brendan.

His big brother stared down at him, love flaming in his eyes as he helped Tommy to his feet. Suddenly Tommy was back at Sparta again last year, and Brendan was helping him out of the cage after he'd made Tommy tap out, helping him out and supporting him with Tommy's left shoulder hanging out of its socket.

"C'mon, little brother," Brendan said, his voice strong and full of love and caring for his baby brother who seemed to be suddenly eight years old again in his eyes. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

Tommy nodded mutely, noting with surprise he didn't feel the slightest bit embarrassed. He knew people were watching, because a hush suddenly went over the crowd as soon as they saw Brendan get into the cage. His brother's arm was strong and steady around his shoulders as they descended the stairs, and Tommy's eyes lit on the two faces at the bottom looking up at him. One was Pop's, and his eyes held a reflection of what had been in Brendan's a minute ago. He lifted a hand, waving Brendan down, a silent indication to hurry, that they should get out of there as soon as possible.

The other face was Colt's. And he looked fucking furious.

Tommy ignored him as Pop took up his other flank, his arm going around Tommy's waist. Tommy tried his best not to look people in the face as they passed, but he couldn't help it. He caught one or two of the looks he was getting – and they looked sympathetic and shocked. He realized that it made him mad.

Good.

The anger licked through his veins slowly, making him feel like his strength was coming back and that he was coming back to life, little by little. He'd felt like a shell of himself in that cage at the end – like a broken spirit, lost, insane, pitiful. Now, as the anger warmed through him, he was starting to feel like himself again.

Colt trailed behind them silently as they headed to Tommy's dressing room. Once inside, Paddy immediately grabbed some towels, ice, and a fresh shirt. Brendan made Tommy sit on the small table in the room, and Paddy quickly dried off Tommy's back and arms before giving him the shirt. Tommy was fairly certain Paddy might have actually tried to dress him himself had he not finally slipped the shirt on. Brendan held ice wrapped in another towel to his cheek.

"Startin' to swell from where the kid belted you," he said calmly, his tone a little joking. His eyes were still loving, but they were also sharp and alert, watching Tommy warily.

"I can do that," Tommy mumbled, taking over the ice pack and noting that the room was simmering with tension. He glanced over at Colt, still silent and leaning against the wall, but rage was still evident in every line of him. Then Tommy glanced at Brendan, who was now watching Colt, and he could see an equal look of fury on his brother's face. _Ah, shit._ Tommy knew Brendan couldn't stand Colton Boyd, and was silently begging the manager to give him a reason. Now might be just the opportunity he was looking for, and Tommy knew he needed to try to distract his brother.

He kicked Brendan's leg with his foot lightly. "Hey. Thanks for pulling me out of there. I sort of – lost it for a minute."

Brendan immediately looked down at him, folding his arms over his chest. "Yeah, I could tell, bro. You scared the shit out of me. Since you brought it up – are you okay now?"

_No, _Tommy thought. "Yeah. I guess I'm cool now. Hungry." He glanced up at Brendan from under his brows and a slight smile tugged at the corners of Brendan's mouth.

"No shit. You're always hungry. Let's get you cleaned up and grab some chow. Sound good?"

"You wanna tell me what the _fuck_ that was?"

Colt's low voice came from across the room. His calm, quiet tone belied the anger that was coursing through him, and Tommy glanced at him. Before he could open his mouth, Brendan was on him.

In a few quick strides, his brother was across the room and in Colt's face. "What the fuck that was?" he repeated, hissing between his teeth. _Ah, fucking shit._ Tommy slipped off the table, shrugging off Paddy's restraining hand, and tossed the ice pack on the table. He meant to calm the situation down; but if Colt decided he wanted to jump stupid in Brendan's face, well – between family and money, it was no contest. He'd always have Brendan's back, no matter what.

"_I'd_ call that a fucking PTSD episode," Brendan went on, glaring right into Colt's eyes, which wasn't hard to do since they were nose to nose. "Of course, you're such a selfish piece of fucking _shit_ I wouldn't expect you to understand or care that your 'prize fighter' is suffering from it."

_I am?_

"Hey, man," Colt replied angrily. "You better watch who the _fuck_ you're talking to –"

"Or what?" Brendan asked calmly. "What are you gonna do?"

_Shit. If he gets in a fight Tess is gonna kick my ass. _Tommy grabbed Brendan's shoulder. "Bren. _Bren. _Yo, back off. Back off." Brendan remained where he was, a vein in his neck popping out as his entire body tensed and his fists clenched.

"Stand down, son," Paddy barked.

"Bren, c'mon. Back up." Tommy wedged a hand in between the two men and pressed against Brendan's chest. Finally Brendan backed up, and Colt relaxed a little.

"All I know is, Tommy lost a fight that he should have fucking _won_," Colt said angrily. "And not only did he _lose_, he got _beat_." He looked pointedly at Tommy. "You don't really give a fuck about Sparta II, do you?"

"_Hey!_" Paddy thundered, and the three younger men jumped. Now it was Paddy's turn to come striding across the room, as fast as he could manage with his limp. He leaned toward Colt, over the forearms of both of his sons pressing against his chest, and growled angrily. "My son went to _war_ for fuckhead cowards like _you_ who were too pussy to enlist yourselves and risked his life so you could continue being a greedy bastard! And now he's got a mental problem because of it!" Paddy jabbed a finger toward his head. _Mental problem? _Tommy thought, feeling strangely offended. "So no, _I_ don't really give a fuck about some damn Sparta tournament after seeing what just happened to him!" He jabbed again, this time at Colt. "You're supposed to protect him! You're his manager. You're supposed to look after him and keep him safe – why would you bring him here?"

Colt's face had softened a little. "I thought he was ready. _He _thought he was ready. We couldn't have known, could we, Tommy? I mean you couldn't have known this would happen, could you?"

"I thought I was ready," Tommy repeated in a mumble to his father and brother. "I really did. And no. I couldn't have known."

"Again, I don't really give a shit one way or the other," Paddy said sharply. "All I know is that my kid was suffering in that cage, and I don't ever want to see that again. Tommy, I don't think Sparta's a real good idea for you right now. I think you should wait for next year."

"What?" Tommy looked sharply at his father. "Why the fuck would I wait? I'm ready now. Tonight was – tonight was a little setback. I'm fine, nothing to worry about. But if you think I'm gonna give up on _seven million_ dollars _you're _the one with the mental problem."

Brendan was shaking his head. "Tommy, Pop is right," he said slowly. "Look, I want you to go and win this thing as much as you do, but you're not _healthy. _Not up here." He tapped his head and Tommy felt like punching him now. "What happens if this happens again at Sparta? What are you going to do? You'd still be losing out on the seven mil. It's just not worth the damage –"

"What the fuck does that mean, I'd '_still'_ be losing out?" Tommy stared at Brendan angrily. "What you tryin' to say, Bren? You think I'm gonna fail?"

Brendan held up a hand. "No, I didn't say that, Tommy. Just chill out for a second and listen. I said –"

"I don't want to listen to shit else anyone's got to say," Tommy said, feeling infuriated now. "Fuck this. Everyone get the fuck out."

"What?"

Tommy wasn't sure which of three of them said it, but all of them were looking at him in surprise. He didn't give half a shit right now – he was suddenly so fucking pissed he wished he was back in the ring pounding the face of some dumbass showoff amateur fuck-face. He'd fucking _lost. Lost. _

_A fucking loser, _he thought furiously. _A fucking losing deserter from Deserterville. _

"Get the fuck out!" he roared, and then turned sharply. He had to do something, anything, to release the rage he was feeling, so he flipped the table over and hurled a chair at the wall. "Get the fuck out right now – all of you! Just leave me alone!"

His chest was heaving and he looked up. Colt looked nonplussed, holding his hands up in surrender. He was nodding, and saying, "All right, you got it, you got it."

His father and his brother both looked pale and shocked. But that love in both their eyes, that he'd seen outside the cage, hadn't waned.

"Sure, Tommy," Brendan said calmly. "Whatever you say. We'll go. I'll call you soon. C'mon, Pop." Brendan tugged Paddy's arm, and before the old man turned to follow his eldest son out, Tommy caught a flash of hurt. The same hurt that was on his face that night in the casino in Atlantic City, when Tommy had called him useless.

And also told him to get the fuck out.

In the span of a few moments, everyone obeyed his wishes and he was alone in the room. A crushing feeling of utter loneliness swept over him, and his chest, throat and eyes burned. He slid to floor against the wall, sitting and staring around.

_Got what you wanted,_ an inner voice jeered. _How's it feel?_

The tears were already slipping off his chin onto his shirt before he even realized he was crying.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hello everyone. Thanks for reading. Please review. More angst for you. T+O time coming up very soon. xoxo**

**Chapter 11**

Some days, Olivia _loved _being Professor Katz's teaching assistant – sitting in class, watching the woman lecture and hearing the subsequent discussions that arose, watching the young minds in the lecture hall churn with ideas and understanding and realizations, and everyone was just so eager to learn.

And other days – like today, for instance – she wanted to rip her hair out or chew her arm off, or both, out of boredom and frustration.

As was typical on a Monday, there were dozing students, texting students, whispering students, and students who were doing homework – for other classes. Out of the hundred-fifty student class, there were maybe eighty students in the room, and only a fraction of them were actually paying attention. Olivia scanned the theater-style seats, catching sight of one student near the front row with their head tipped back, mouth open, and was snoring. Olivia stared at him, feeling a mixture of annoyance and some grudging admiration. He was in the second row. With no one in front of him. That took balls. She had the urge to go tie his shoelaces together.

And yet, bless her heart, Professor Katz went on with her lecture despite all of these things, her slightly scratchy, high-pitched voice trembling away as it always did as she went through her slides. Today's lesson was on the history and development of cognitive behavioral therapy. There were the brainiacs in the front row furiously scribbling notes in their notebooks. Then there were the more technologically savvy kids with their notebook-thin Macintosh laptops, clacking away, and then there were the kids that were highlighting along in the textbook as the lecture went on. And then there were the kids who were doing more of nothing at all.

Olivia sighed to herself as she caught Katz's cue to click to the next slide. She remembered her days in Psych 101, with Professor…Carter? She was pretty sure it was Carter. She was one of the front-row kids, always showing up for class early, not leaving until the last note was scribbled down (in her days, it was rare that anyone had a feasibly portable laptop in class), raising her hand to ask questions on an obnoxiously frequent basis. She smiled a little at the memory of her younger self, whom she could suddenly see right there in the front row – high ponytail, glasses, hoodie with the university logo embroidered on the front, sleeves pushed up, jeans, sneakers. The living definition of a school nerd.

But today, her patience was unraveling, and the engaged, "so ready to learn" students had morphed into brown-nosing overachievers trying way too hard to sound intelligent as they asked their questions over the lecture material. _Save it for the 400-level classes, children,_ Olivia thought impatiently as the same girl who had asked the last five hundred questions in the fifty-minute class raised her hand again.

"Oh, that's all the time we have today, guys," Professor Katz said, noting her watch. "Email me or come by during office hours if you have any questions. And _do not _forget about the online recap session Liv is hosting this evening at eight. For those of you who slept through this class – and that was a number of you, present or not – you'll need it. We have a quiz on Friday preceding the final exam next week. And don't forget about your research papers. Okay, get out of here."

Olivia got to her feet to gather her things and field some questions from a group of students who approached her about the online recap session. It was something she had created for the class – sleepers aside, she knew how difficult some of the material was, and having an opportunity to go over the slides again (albeit much more quickly than the professor did, and hopefully Olivia's voice was nowhere near that annoying) and ask some more questions about it was proving to be pretty successful for the kids.

On her way out of the classroom, Olivia pulled out her phone to check the time. It was almost twelve-thirty, and by the time she walked across campus and made it to her car it would be closer to twelve-forty-five. She mused over the idea that perhaps a large fruit smoothie sounded like a good option for lunch – _fruity, and portable, check –_ and then she'd be on to her office to catch up on some paperwork and prepare for Tommy at six.

She noticed she had a new voicemail – in and of itself an oddity, because, really, who left _voicemails_ anymore? – and a new text message, as well as several missed calls, all from the same number she didn't recognize. She lifted an eyebrow at the list of alerts on her screen; generally, she was never this popular. Plus, this was her personal cell phone, not her work cell phone. As a rule, she did not offer her personal cell number to her clients, but she did extend it to her students. For the most part, no one ever really used it that much – maybe once or twice a month, except during dead week and finals week. Then the students were _blowing her up _as they panicked over the semester-end requirements.

The fact that the summer session was drawing to a close probably meant that students were starting to get a little antsy. This Friday's quiz was the last of the session, and the final exam was a week later along with the due date of their final paper. She knew stress and tension levels were getting high and stomachs were knotting up. She therefore assumed that it was one of her students, panicking over the course material or the paper or the upcoming quiz, perhaps even the exam even though the following week was going to be dedicated to review.

She opened the application for her texts and scanned down the list. It was from someone outside of her contact list, as it was only a ten-digit number and not a name. She opened it.

"_Liv its Kenny I need to make appt. Pls call me soon."_

Olivia frowned. How in the blue hell had Kenny Meyer, a former patient, gotten her _personal_ cell phone number? It made her utterly annoyed – not to mention uncomfortable. She hoped it wouldn't become a problem; there was a reason therapists had _work_ cell phones. She checked her voicemail, finding that it was also from Kenny and covering roughly the same bases that his text had. She then checked her missed call log. He had called three times before the time stamp of the voicemail, and then once more afterward.

_Stalk much?_ Olivia thought, annoyed, and then immediately felt bad. The man hadn't been doing well at all since the divorce; he might really be struggling, might really need to talk to someone. She shouldn't be so irritated by someone coming to her for help – that's what she did for a living, after all.

She called him back, and he answered practically halfway through the first ring. "Liv!"

"Hey, Kenny," she said calmly. "What's going on?"

"Liv, I have to see you," he said, his voice shaking a little bit. "I really gotta get in."

"Okay," Olivia replied, in the same calm tone. "I'm walking to my car right now. Hold on, and I'll grab my appointment book."

She unlocked the door of her early 2000-ish gray Corolla and slid inside, balancing her work satchel, purse and the phone between her ear and shoulder. Her neck creaked in protest and she stifled a grunt as she fell into the seat. "Hang on, Kenny." She straightened and pulled her appointment book out of her satchel and flipped it open to the current week. "Okay."

"Can I see you right now?" Kenny demanded.

"Well, I'm not technically available at my office until this evening, and I already have a six o'clock appointment. Would you like to come at seven?"

Kenny sighed. "If that's the soonest."

"That's the soonest." After classes, Olivia generally went to her office on campus, but Mondays happened to be Professor Katz's office hours, and Olivia preferred to go to her other office on these days. It was _much _quieter, and she could actually make some headway on her dissertation. Currently, it was a staggering one hundred pages, but the required length for her doctoral degree was not quite twice that. It was disturbingly easy to find ways to procrastinate when it came to writing, which was not Olivia's preference or strong suit, though she could bullshit with the best of them. The trouble was, it was notoriously difficult to bullshit a doctoral dissertation, and she didn't even want to begin to try. Her goal was ten pages a week, and she wanted to try to knock out five today.

"All right," Kenny agreed. "I just need to see you."

"Hang in there," Olivia replied gently. "We'll work through it, whatever it is."

She ended the call and sighed, rubbing her eyes and wondering again about food as her stomach growled to life. She decided that the large fruit smoothie she'd been daydreaming about was definitely in order, and that a soft blueberry muffin would be the perfect accompaniment, all from the local smoothie shop. _The perfect lunch. _Actually, she knew that a salad with low-fat dressing and some protein would actually be the perfect lunch, especially where her ass was concerned, but fuck that anyway. She was Latin; it was supposed to be round. And coincidentally and conveniently, there happened to be a smoothie shop in walking distance from her office.

_It's brain food,_ she told herself as she stuck her key into the ignition and turned it over. She wasn't sure what that meant or if it was true, but it made her feel better. The car made an alarming noise before lurching to life, and she cursed herself for the billionth time. _I have got to got to got to got to get this fucking car looked at before it becomes a real problem. _

She thought over the rest of her day. It would take the better part of four-ish hours to sift through her notes, gather her reference materials and write the five pages she really wanted to write today, and the thought of it all made her instantly sleepy. She would have about an hour break before she had Tommy at six, and then her evening would be extended by one more hour for Kenny at seven. Normally, Wednesdays were her longer evenings because she didn't have to show up for class – e.g., start her day – until one in the afternoon, so she could afford to stretch out her hours a bit into the evening, hence Paddy's clockwork Wednesday evening appointments at seven. Mondays and Thursdays were long days for her though, between cleaning the gym at Colt's early in the morning on both days, and full classes, appointments and teaching class on Thursday nights. She'd been up since six this morning and had been going full-tilt ever since, with no sign of reprieve at least until eight-thirty.

The morning spent at the gym had been surprisingly calm. The guys pretty much all left her alone at this point. Mad Dog had tried yet again to coerce her into a date, which she managed to _politely_ refuse for the umpteenth time as her patience was wearing incredibly thin with him at this point. She realized that she hadn't seen Tommy, however. Colt had kept her rather busy this morning, including having her wipe down most of the equipment that wasn't currently in use, and that had kept her eyes from roaming over the gym. She refused to admit that she had actually been seeking him out to check him out in action. Or, wait – she was seeking him out because she was really curious as to how that fight went on Friday. Yeah. That was all – she was concerned about him. It had nothing to do with watching his sweaty naked torso flex and bend and move and ripple –

_Stop,_ she told herself sternly. _He's practically a patient, for Chrissakes. You're disgusting._

Her appreciation for his physical form aside, Olivia was actually worried about him, especially given the fact that he hadn't shown up at the gym this week. Based on the fact that she knew he was a gym rat, and how important this fight was to him as well as the big Sparta thingy, she wondered what impact it had on his absence. _Maybe – maybe he won and he's taking the day off today to relax and – and stuff,_ she thought hopefully. _It doesn't have to be a bad thing._

Olivia didn't know Tommy well, but at this point, her gut was telling her it was definitely not a good thing.

* * *

Around one o'clock that afternoon, Tommy trudged through the doors of the Tonic Bar & Grill, his heart feeling heavy.

He'd had every intention of going to the gym this morning but Colt had called him at six, telling him to take it easy for the day, to rest, and to get ready for the interview. Tommy had a feeling that Colt was still really pissed about his loss, and frankly, Tommy was extremely nervous about what it meant for his chances at Sparta. He'd spent the weekend obsessing over the outcome of the fight, and he was growing increasingly infuriated with himself.

_Fucking flashback_, he thought angrily for the millionth time. _I had that little fucker. He was _done_. I had his ass, and they fuckin' hit me in the face with that light. God. Dammit. _

And underneath the anger was total and complete disappointment in himself – he didn't lose fights. He'd only lost one, and that had been to Brendan. _Tommy Conlon didn't lose a fight._

_If I've lost Sparta,_ he thought, catching sight of Colt and another man in a booth toward the back, _I'm bouncing out of PA for good. Fuck the bullshit – I'm gone. _

He headed over to the booth, nodding at Colt as both men stood. Colt clapped him on the shoulder, but Tommy had a feeling that it was more for show for the reporter than because he actually felt like being affectionate. "Billy. This is my guy. My prize fighter. You remember him from Sparta. This is Tommy Conlon."

Billy the Reporter held out his hand and as Tommy reached for it, he didn't miss the slightly snarky, condescending look on the guy's face. "_Prize_ fighter, Colt?" he said, shaking Tommy's hand. He had a firm grip, but Tommy gave it right back to him and then some, and took a little satisfaction in the way Billy winced, just ever so slightly. "That's not what I heard from Friday night."

_He's startin' in on me already? _Tommy thought, staring the reporter down and feeling fresh anger stirring in his chest. _Really?_ He gave Colt a sidelong look. Colt rubbed his shoulder again, and it took every ounce of willpower Tommy had to not fling off his arm.

"C'mon, Billy," he said coaxingly. "Give the kid a break. He's fresh out of the brig. He's got some issues, you know? We thought he had it in the bag, he didn't, DeShawn was a little monster. Win some, lose some. Doesn't mean he's not Sparta II material."

"Sure," Billy replied, unconvinced.

The waitress came by to take their order and bring Colt and Billy their beers, and a glass of water for Tommy, who indicated he wanted to keep it that way. Colt and Billy ordered huge double bacon cheeseburgers and fries, and Tommy automatically ordered his usual no matter where he went when he was training – two grilled chicken breasts, easy on the salt, plain baked potato, side of steamed broccoli with some low-fat cheddar cheese.

"See?" Colt said, gesturing to Tommy after the waitress had left. "He's doing right. Good diet. Fuckin' beast. Will you look at this guy?"

"So, Tommy," Billy said, ignoring Colt. "Talk to me a little about Sparta last year. What was going through your head when you realized you'd be fighting your own brother?"

_Shit_. What _hadn't_ been going through his head? Tommy could still feel and recall the overwhelming mix of confusion, fury, sadness, loneliness and resentment he'd felt when he'd learned that it had come down to just him and Brendan. _What a fucking question to open with,_ he thought ruefully.

"Well," he mumbled.

"Speak up, son," Billy said, and placed his cell phone on the table, where Tommy could see a recorder application running. "Can't hear you when you mumble."

Tommy couldn't help a glare. Then again, he didn't try that hard. "I felt all sort of things."

"Like what? Can you be more specific?" Billy seemed unfazed by his obvious discomfort.

"It was my brother," Tommy said impatiently. "Who I hadn't seen for, like, fourteen years, had issues with anyway. I was angry, I was confused as to how he could be there. We'd just gotten into it the night before, so I was mostly pissed off at him. I was feeling things I didn't know I could feel. I thought I was done being mad at him, but I wasn't. I thought I didn't care anymore, but I did."

"And when you two were in the ring together, and he dislocated your shoulder," Billy went on, and Tommy's left shoulder began to suddenly throb in the socket. "How did that make you feel? What was going through your mind?"

"At first," Tommy began, hating having to dredge this up at all, "I couldn't believe that my big brother was the one who'd done it to me. And then I guess I got mad."

"Shocker," Bill replied.

Tommy ignored the interruption although the reporter's snarky attitude was pissing him off more and more. "So then it became about not letting Brendan get the best of me and showing him that I'm my own man, and I'm capable of beating him, that I never needed him."

"But you weren't capable of beating him," Bill said. "He took you down and made you tap out and subsequently lose the tournament. Although, it was very noble of you to try to fight one-armed." He lifted his brows quickly as though to show what he really of that just as the waitress arrived with their plates. Tommy glared down at his chicken and potato.

Bill helped himself to an enormous bite of his burger, stuffing in a few fries, and then went on with his questions. "So. Brendan makes you tap out, you lose Sparta, and we all saw the emotional moment when he helped you out of the ring. What happened next?"

Tommy lifted his glare to the reporter, then felt Colt give him a warning nudge in his side with his elbow. He could practically hear his manager's voice in his head. _Cool your shit, bro. Don't fuck this up._ "I got taken into MP custody."

"Military police," Billy repeated. "Because you'd gone AWOL from the Marines after witnessing a friendly fire incident that claimed the life of your best friend, Manny Fernández. It so rattled you that you immediately deserted your unit."

_Deserting deserter, _Tommy thought, feeling sudden anxiety clawing at his gut.

"Then, you stumbled upon a tank of submerged Marines and proceeded to rip the door off the tank and save their lives. Tell me what was going through your mind at that time."

Tommy was silent for a beat. "That since I couldn't save Manny, I damn well better save my other brothers."

"Uh-huh. And then you kept running."

_I wonder what Mazzella would say to this guy right now_, Tommy thought, thinking of his old brig buddy who gave him the nickname he couldn't seem to get away from. "Yes. I kept running."

"Out of the country, finding your way back home, back to your abusive alcoholic father. Why did you feel that _he_ was the best option?"

"I didn't know anybody else in Pennsylvania. I mean, he's my family. He was the only family I really had. I had nowhere else to go. Besides, I felt that now that I was older and a Marine if he tried that shit with me again I could take him."

"You mean, hurt your father for hurting you?" Billy lifted his brows again.

Tommy shook his head. _He's fucking up your words._ "No. I mean, if he tried that abuse shit with me again, I could defend myself this time around. I used to be a skinny little kid, I couldn't do much."

"But now, you can inflict all sorts of pain, if you want to. Isn't that right, Tommy?"

"I guess." Tommy shook his head, feeling the anxiety crawl up into his chest and throat. His brain felt fuzzy. "No, wait. That's not what I'm saying exactly."

"I know what you mean," Billy said with a knowing smirk. "Tell me – how did Manny's widow Pilar find out about her husband's death?"

Tommy looked at him sharply. "The CO of our unit told her. And the chaplain."

"You were Manny's best friend, presumably met his wife and kids. And you didn't notify her first?"

"There's a process to follow." Tommy's head suddenly began to hurt. Damn…he wondered if Pilar held that against him. "Plus I was – I was – "

"You were too busy running," Billy said smoothly. "Right?"

"Okay, now," Colt finally said quietly, lifting a hand.

"No, it's okay," Billy said, raising a hand as well. "He can answer. He's a big boy."

"There's a process to follow," Tommy repeated dully. "A procedure."

"Okay. We'll set that aside for now." Billy mopped up some ketchup with another fry with a mocking smile on his face. "Because there's a procedure."

_How could Colt set me up with this asshole?_ Tommy thought, and almost immediately heard his father shouting, "_Why did you bring him here? You're supposed to take care of him!"_

"Back to you and Brendan. There were some rumors after Sparta that you knew of his financial troubles stemming from the heart surgery of one of his two small daughters – your nieces, as it turns out. The rumors suggested you threw the fight to let him win. True or not?"

Tommy glowered at him. "You think I would go through all that, get my arm ripped out the socket, to _throw _a fight?" he demanded, fresh anger filling him. "Not to mention, I don't throw shit for _nobody!"_

"Which leads me to my next question," Billy went on calmly, ignoring Tommy's apparent anger. "If you _didn't_ throw the fight, how could you fight so hard to keep five million dollars that your brother so desperately needed? He was about to lose his _house_ – maybe more, all because he did what he had to for his daughter. Could you have really lived with yourself knowing that you snatched money away from someone who needed it more than you? To give to a 'military widow'." He did the quotation mark thing with his fingers, and Tommy got the message loud and clear that this guy thought, really thought, that Tommy had intended to keep the money for himself all along. He hadn't – he _had _planned to give it to Pilar, and moreover, he hadn't known a damn thing about Brendan or his financial troubles _or _his niece's heart surgery. He hadn't know. Tommy sat back slowly in the booth, his plate untouched, and stared at the reporter, absolutely speechless and flabbergasted.

Billy bit back a smirk and leaned forward, taking on a low, conspiratorial tone. "Tell me, Mr. Riordan – sorry, _Conlon_ – what _did_ your brother say to you in that ring?"

Something in him snapped at the question. That was it. Interview – over.

Before Tommy really knew what he was doing, he leaned across the table and grabbed the reporter's face with one hand and squeezed, yanking him upward, taking small, unconscious pleasure in the way Billy's eyes went wide. "None of your _fucking business_," he hissed. "And _for the record _ – you can take the rest of your questions and shove 'em right up your ass."

"Tommy, let go!" Colt exclaimed, grabbing his arm. "Tommy. Tommy! Let him go, for Chrissakes!"

Tommy realized suddenly what he'd done, what he was _doing, _and reality washed over him like a bucket of ice water. He let Billy go immediately, the reporter falling back against the booth in shock, his hand coming to his face. Colt was staring at him.

"I – I gotta go," Tommy mumbled, and then launched himself out of the booth and sped out the door. He moved blindly toward his truck, and when he reached it he wrenched open the door – _like I yanked that door off the tank to save those guy. Those Marines, the ones I could save since I couldn't save Manny, and oh, God, Pilar – you must have hated me back then for not being the one to tell you, I was a fucking coward, a fucking deserting coward –_

Tommy leaned his forehead against his steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited for the panic to subside, until he could breathe again. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was barely two.

He suddenly wished his appointment with Olivia was way sooner than six.

He cranked the engine to life and sped off, driving aimlessly, and pointlessly, because he knew he'd never be able to outrun, out-drive, or outlive these demons.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Happy Friday, darlings. Hopefully you're still with me - I've noticed the reviews have been dropping off, so if you're still reading, I'd love to hear from you. Reviews make me want to write more. To those of you who have reviewed thank you VERY kindly and keep them coming. I love hearing from you. Also - I hope nobody thinks Tommy's gone soft because he's cried a few times. He's not soft. He's healing. OK, that's all for now. RRE. xoxo**

**P.S. Very special shoutout to the homegirl Mals86. If you have read her Warrior story, you'll know what I'm talm 'bout. :-) Thanks for everything, lady!**

**Chapter 12**

The smoothie was smithereens. And the muffin was long gone.

After several hours hunched over at her desk, Olivia realized she'd been hunching for way too long, and glanced at the clock. Yikes – it was already five-fifteen, and she was starving. Again.

She unfurled herself from her goblin-like position at the desk and sighed, stretching her arms high above her head and yawning deeply. She'd met and exceeded her goal – she'd managed to get six-and-a-half pages written in the past few hours, and updated her bibliography as well. She felt truly accomplished for the day, and in her mind that called for a treat.

_Like in the form of a Philly,_ she thought dreamily. There was a place across the street and down a block that made phenomenal Philly cheesesteaks, and she wanted one. _I want one, _she mentally repeated to her ass. _I'll take you running tomorrow morning. Just chill._

She'd better hurry. Tommy would be here soon, and she needed sufficient time to inhale her dinner and then wash her hands and brush her teeth before he arrived. She stood up, stretching again, and then grabbed her purse and hustled out of her office, locking up quickly behind her.

It was early August, and warm, a nice contrast from her freezing cold office. She didn't know _who_ controlled the climate of the building, but it seemed that no matter how many times she adjusted the setting, it only ever got to a hair above frigid. As a result, she had to bundle herself up in her office and then shed the layers once she got outside. She was wearing a pair of comfortable, funky black-and-white ikat printed high-waist harem style pants, a body-skimming, scoop-neck black tank top tucked into the waistband and simple, flat black sandals. With her height heels would have looked much better, but there was no way she was going to schlep around campus in a pair of heels.

The sun felt absolutely _delicious _on her tanned skin and face, and she pulled her glasses off for a moment to enjoy the radiant warmth. Then her stomach started its bitching again, so she put her ass in gear and hustled down the street.

Unfortunately, she ran right into the after-work crowd and had to stand in line for another fifteen minutes, and then it took another ten for her sandwich to be ready. She grabbed a table and wolfed her meal down, obsessively checking her watch, and it was five 'til when she made it back to her office. She made a beeline for the bathroom that was just down the hall to wash the sandwich smell off her hands – _mmm grilled onions and cheese – _and retrieved the toothbrush, toothpaste and mouthwash she kept in a locked cabinet there. She was just finishing up spitting out the mouthful of Listerine when her work cell phone chirped.

_Shit Tommy's here probably pissed –_

It was Kenny. Again.

"Hello," she answered. "Kenny, everything okay?"

"Can I see you now, Liv?" he demanded.

Olivia closed her eyes and counted to five. "No, sorry, Kenny. I told you I have a six o'clock."

"It's six o'clock _now_," Kenny pointed out. "And you're answering your phone."

"I understand that," Olivia said as gently as she could as she hustled to put her things away. "I'm sure my client is already here. I'm just finishing up some things –" _Why am I explaining this to you? _ "I'll see you in an hour," she finished firmly.

"You're _sure_ your client is there?" Kenny said, sounding agitated. "So you don't even really know?"

Olivia glanced at her watch. It was now three after six. _Ah, shit! _She shoved out of the bathroom and hurried down the hall. "Kenny, I apologize for being abrupt, but I have to go now. I will see you here at seven. Bye, now." She hung up before he could say anything else, and then put the phone on vibrate for good measure. She skidded to a stop when she saw Tommy leaning against the wall next to her door, one foot propped against up against it. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the words "P-Burgh Tattoos, Ink." on the front, and his arms were folded over his chest. He was worrying the toothpick that was wedged in between his lips as he stared off into space, and for a minute Olivia could only fixate on the full pillows that were his lips, pursed around the toothpick. _He looks like a fucking model_, she thought in awe, then shook herself. He also looked extremely agitated, and he glanced up at her.

"Hi, there," she said tentatively. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I was – never mind. Doesn't matter. Come on in." She fumbled with her keys, feeling a little flush creeping over her chest as Tommy's eyes seemed to linger at the scoop neckline of her fitted, semi-sheer tank top. The little tailored black suit jacket she had paired with the pants was hanging on the back of her desk chair and she suddenly felt a desperate need to get to it.

"Who's Kenny?" he asked by way of greeting, and his tone was _very _grumpy. "Your boyfriend or something?" His tone was vaguely accusatory, she noticed as she opened the door and stepped aside to let him in. She figured he thought she'd blown him off to talk to her boyfriend instead of showing up on time. _Understandable reason to be mad_, she mused, _and way off base._

"What? _No_," she said as he stepped inside the office and she shut the door, stifling the urge to add _ew_. "I don't _have _a boyf—He's not – he's just an old patient of mine needing to become a new patient. Never mind. Again. Doesn't matter."

"_Old_ patient?" Tommy repeated, dropping heavily onto the sofa and watching as she moved to her desk to get her jacket. She slid it on, grateful for the slight warmth it provided against the goose bumps that were already rising on her arms. She grabbed her black framed cat-eye shaped glasses from her desk, Tommy's folder and a pen, and moved back to sit across from him. "Couldn't cure him the first time, so he's back now?" His tone had now become a little condescending, and it made Olivia snap her head up to look at him.

He didn't look good. _Well,_ Olivia hastened to correct herself, _he looks _great. _He doesn't look like he's feeling so hot. _Olivia didn't know him that well, but being snarky and rude – with the exception of their first session, and that really had been more self-loathing than anything – was not really part of his personality, insofar as she could tell, anyway. So she didn't take offense.

"Sometimes people relapse or go through different issues," she explained patiently. "People go through lots of things that they want to work through. Therapy is not a cure-all."

"Then what's the point?" he said bitterly, and folded his arms over his chest again. It made his biceps look huge. _Stop it,_ she told herself sternly, and focused on his face instead. _Like that's any easier to ignore. So beautiful and sad…_

"The point," she said, fiddling with her pen, "is to learn different techniques to handle tough times, gain a new perspective and more self-confidence. And understand that it is about progress, not perfection."

He looked at her then, in the eye, for the first time since he'd walked into her office that day. "I'll never be perfect."

"That's not the endgame," Olivia replied. "Perfection is impossible. Put that out of your mind. Now, tell me…how are you doing?"

"Just fuckin' fantastic," Tommy said sarcastically, and it made her wince. _God,_ but the poor guy was really going through some shit. "Can't you tell?"

"Tommy," she said softly, and it seemed to catch his attention in a strange way, because he looked at her again, a little startled. "I need you to drop the sarcasm. It's a defense mechanism, and you don't need to have your defenses up, okay? Not with me. I want to help you. Now, tell me. What's going on?"

"I-I lost the fight on Friday," he admitted, looking down at his lap. "I had the guy, and then I had a flashback or something."

"Flashback of what?" she asked, though she was pretty sure she already knew. He was a war vet, after all.

"Iraq," he said, then heaved one of the heaviest sighs she'd ever heard. "I was in Iraq. The – the friendly fire thing."

"Ah," Olivia said quietly, understanding the reference to the event that killed his entire unit, including his best friend. "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened? Take me through it."

"I, uh –" His voice faltered a little, and he cleared his throat. He met her eyes again, and she saw wells of pain in them. "I don't know if I can. I don't know if I can relive that again."

"It's okay," Olivia said. "You don't have to talk about it right now if you don't want to. But I can't really do right by you if I don't understand what you're struggling with." She brought the pen to her lips and nibbled pensively for a moment. "How about this – can you tell me about your feelings surrounding the event?"

"I feel," he said slowly, then glanced up quickly at her again. "I'm not good at this. Talkin' about my _feelings_." His fingers hooked into quotation marks.

"It's okay," she repeated. "Honestly. I'll help you sort through it, okay, Tommy? Just – talk to me." Her heart burned a little, looking at him sitting there – he was so lost. So hurt. So desperately in need of help. And she found herself caring about what he was going through, a whole hell of a lot.

"I'm – angry," he admitted. "I'm angry at the jets that were flying overhead. I'm angry at the LT who assigned us to that task that night. And I guess I'm angry at myself."

_Starting with anger,_ Olivia noted, jotting it down in the file. _The only emotion he's ever been allowed to feel, that he was ever told was acceptable to feel._

"Angry at yourself, why?" Olivia asked softly. "Tell me about that."

"I'm angry at myself because – because I lived, and they didn't," he said hoarsely. "Manny and all those guys. Even that prick, Fleischman." His tone became vaguely affectionate, and Olivia knew he was back in Iraq at the moment, in that hot desert with his brothers. "That prick was really on his own dick that night in particular. Two days before, he'd been promoted to Sergeant. Battlefield promotion, but he thought he was King Tut or some shit and acting like it." He chuckled, and the way his face softened for just an instant made Olivia's breath catch a little. He was truly a beautiful, beautiful man. But the instant was over, and a shadow fell back over his face. "And then just out of nowhere – shit went crazy. I just remember these huge explosions going off super close and I kept thinking – 'those jets are American. Those jets are American. Don't they know they're killing us?'"

_He brought me with him,_ Olivia realized, tucking her legs underneath her and leaning forward a little bit. _We're in Iraq now. _"What was your first reaction?"

Tommy's pewter blue eyes were a little glazed over as he stared a point somewhere between her knee and the carpet. "I just launched my body to the ground opposite from the nearest blast. I was hoping some guys were within reach of me – that Manny was nearby – so I could grab them on the way down, make sure they were safe. I think I knew in that moment that some of us weren't going to make it. I just couldn't believe that only one of us did." A familiar mask of self-loathing slipped across his features. _No,_ Olivia thought. _Don't go there. Stay with me, here in the desert._

"Where was Manny?"

"I think – I think he must have gone for cover too when the first bomb hit. But he couldn't have known there was gonna be more. None of us could have known that. I'm pretty sure – based on what I found later on – that the next bomb dropped about twenty feet from where he took cover. There just – there just wasn't much of him left." He swallowed hard.

"How long did it take? From the initial bomb drop to the smoke clearing." Olivia kept her eyes focused on his face, ready to pull him back to the present if he started to slip.

"It was probably only thirty seconds or so, maybe a minute, minute-and-a-half, but it feels like forever," Tommy replied, and Olivia noted that he had switched to speaking in present tense. _He's there. He's fully there._

"And when the smoke clears," Olivia said gently, "how do you feel? What are you hearing, what are you seeing?"

"More smoke," Tommy answered, blinking slowly. "Smoke, and there's dust in my mouth and I can smell fire. And I can hear this guy, this poor guy, screaming his head off. I'm thinking it's one of my guys. Someone's hurt, someone's hurt bad. I gotta find them." His breath came a little faster. "I gotta find out who's screaming so I can help them. Even if it's just one guy left, I know I'm not alone." _Feelings of isolation and loneliness,_ Olivia noted on her file. "And then I realize it's me screaming."

"You're terrified," Olivia said softly. "You're terrified, and you're in shock. _You_ need help, too."

"Then I trip over this thing on the ground," Tommy went on as if he hadn't heard her. "I look down, and it's Manny's arm. His fucking _arm_. And I just tripped over it. I picked it up."

Olivia frowned and swallowed against her revulsion, picturing it. "How do you know it was his?"

"The tattoo. He had this snake thing on his forearm. And the wedding band. I knew it was him. I knew it was him."

Tommy's eyes were getting a little red, and his breath was coming faster and harder. Olivia had just one more question.

"What do you do now?"

"I drop his arm, and I run," Tommy said. He closed his eyes, and a single tear trickled down his cheek. "I knew they were all gone and instead of getting help, getting their dog tags to send home to their families, getting Manny's wedding ring, _something,_ I fucking ran like a coward." His body began to shake as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and then he doubled over on the couch, burying his head in his hands.

It wasn't therapist protocol; it wasn't what she was trained to do. In fact, she was _pretty _sure that it would have been frowned upon, but reacting purely off of instinct Olivia suddenly slipped out of the chair and swiftly stepped around the coffee table, perching on the edge of it and covering his hands with hers. _He needs to come back. He's gotta get out of there. Right now. _

The contact startled him, and Tommy jerked up. His head would have probably connected with Olivia's nose and sent blood flying everywhere, but she leaned out of the way just in time. He pulled his hands away from hers immediately, but he was back. The glaze had gone from his watery eyes and he focused on her, alert and intense.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low and scratchy. He glanced around. "What – just happened?"

Olivia let out a breath and got up from the table and moved back to her seat. "You took me to Iraq with you."

He frowned. "I was – I was talking? Out loud?"

"Yes," Olivia replied. "You told me what happened that night." She watched him carefully as he reached a hand up to his face to brush off the moisture that was there. He looked at his fingers, frowning at the tears, and she noticed that his pinky finger was bent permanently. She assumed it was likely from nerve damage sustained from fighting.

"I'm such a fuckin' crybaby lately," he muttered. "I never cried this much in my life. The fuck is wrong with me?"

"Tears are a physical manifestation of emotions," Olivia told him. "It is nothing to be ashamed of. And it's a sign that you're letting the poison out, Tommy." She smiled at him, and his eyes widened a little for instant before he looked away. "You're making progress. It might not feel like it, but you are. Little by little."

"We didn't _do _anything tonight," he said. "We didn't talk about my issues with my dad or my anger at my brother or whatever. I just sort of told you about Iraq without meaning to."

"It's a starting place," Olivia said. "We had to start somewhere, right? I understand the flashbacks you struggle with. You can't let go of that night because you have so much anger, guilt and resentment regarding your actions. I want you to understand something – I know you love your brothers-in-arms. That you would die for them. But the number one rule is self-preservation. You had to save your own life, Tommy. Someone had to live for them, tell the tale, to talk about them, to remember them. And, Marines and soldiers and airmen and sailors – you're all expected to be these superhuman creatures. Right? As civilians, you guys are our superheroes. You're our Batmans, our Spidermans, our Supermans. We look at you in such a way as to think that you're these invincible protectors. And you _are_ brave and strong and capable of doing things that the average person just _isn't_. But we also put a ton of pressure on you that way. At the end of the day, you're all human beings too. Regular men and women putting your lives on the line. There was no right or wrong reaction for that night, for what you saw. You're not a bad person for wanting to continue to _live_ and for deciding that you _just_ couldn't take one more second of it. You're _not _bad or wrong for that." She leaned forward. "I want you to hold onto that thought the next time you get down on yourself – you're human. And you have a limit, and that limit was breached in an impossible environment. And there's nothing wrong with that."

Tommy just nodded, his eyes glued to her.

"Do you have bad dreams?" Olivia was willing to bet the farm that he suffered from nightmares; the PTSD guys – they all did.

"Yeah."

"When that happens, I want you to try something. When you wake up out of the nightmare, I want you to breathe. I want you to count to whatever number it takes to get you to physically calm down. And then I want you to change the ending of the dream."

"Huh?" Tommy lifted an eyebrow. She could tell he was skeptical, but intrigued.

"I want you to think about a different outcome. Say the bombs had never dropped. And you guys completed your mission, returned to base safely, played some cards, bullshitted, whatever you guys did to fellowship with each other." Olivia shrugged. "Or, maybe the bombs fall anyway. But each of you made it to cover, and each of you got back to base. I know that's a hard pill to swallow, especially because you're still in the grieving process, and you have to deal with the fact that they _didn't_ make it, but for the purposes of reducing and possibly eliminating your nightmares, I want you to give it a try. Okay?"

Tommy looked doubtful, but he bobbed his head. "I can try."

"Another thing to try is to talk to them. After a nightmare or maybe a flashback, or even a feeling of guilt – talk to them."

"Talk to – my guys?" Tommy repeated.

"Right. Talk to them. Tell them you miss them. That you're sorry you lost them. But that you know they're happy you made it so you can keep their memories alive." Olivia smiled. "It's a little cheesy, maybe, but I know that it works. It helps me." She could have bitten off her tongue – _no personal shit in therapy! What the hell is wrong with you!_

"Helps…_you?"_ Tommy repeated. He glanced at her curiously. "Who, uh – who did you lose?"

_Fuck. _She shook her head quickly. "It's not important."

He shrugged, still looking at her intently. "What good is advice if you don't know if it works?" he asked. "Plus I guess, it means somethin' when someone who's tryin' to help you has their own testimony." He shrugged again. "So, who'd you lose?"

_Don't answer the question. Move on. _"My mother." Olivia bit her lip. "A few years ago. To cancer."

Tommy nodded slowly. "I can relate. I also lost my mother to cancer." He quirked a little half-smile. "But, you already knew that."

Olivia did already know that, but she returned the half-smile with one of her own. "I did, but, that doesn't really matter."

"You were close? With your mom."

_Change the subject. _"Yes," Olivia replied softly. "She was my best friend."

"What about your dad?"

_He's your patient,_ a loud voice in her head reminded her. _No personal chit-chat! _"They divorced when I was pretty young. He moved away. We're not – we're not what you would call close." _Please stop now,_ she begged him silently. Why couldn't she control her words when she was around him? How was it so easy for him to get her to talk? "So, let's go back to your fight on Friday. You lost because you had a flashback of Iraq. What caused that? I mean, do you recall the moment you went back there?"

"The kid – my opponent – he was down on the other side of the cage. I mean, he was down because I put him there. And I was waiting for the ref to count it down, so I could win. Or go put the kid _back_ down if he got up. The place was pretty dark but they had spotlights on the kid. And then the light just swung into my eyes and it made me think of the flashlight that the other unit, the med unit, was using to sweep the area in Iraq. That's how they found me – I was hiding under a piece of a roof that had blown off a house. They shined the light right in my eyes." He sighed sharply. "It knocked me out. It was actually the sound of my brother's voice shouting my name that brought me back, but not in enough time. I got pinned and then I had to tap out." He was looking pissed off again, and Olivia knew it was at himself. "Then I had to do this interview today."

"Interview?" Olivia sat up straight and frowned. "What do you mean?"

Tommy shrugged. "My manager, he's trying hard to get me into Sparta II in a few weeks. The guy that created the tournament, J.J. Riley – he had some conditions I had to meet in order to be put on the roster again. He thinks I'm trouble, you know? Anyway he wanted me to do an ad for the gym and a local interview, to be more open and to show that I can play nice and not be about the drama. Anyway, the interview didn't go well. The guy, he was an asshole, he kept asking questions about my fight with my brother last year and Manny and stuff and – it just didn't go well."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I got pissed off and grabbed the guy by his face," Tommy said bluntly. "That's what it means."

Olivia shut her eyes. "I can't even believe that." _Dammit, control your mouth!_

Tommy looked surprised. "I – sorry. I know I was wrong – I know I shouldn't have done that, I should have –"

"No." Olivia waved her hand. "Not you. I'm sorry – I shouldn't have said that out loud. I just – I can't believe that your manager would put you in a position like that right now, knowing that you struggle. If he's your manager, he's got to know you're having a hard time right now. He was there on Friday, right?"

Tommy nodded, a little sheepishly.

_That fucking asshole._ "Listen, you definitely should keep your hands to yourself. I don't blame you for what you did, though – that's something else that we're going to work on. Managing that anger." She chewed her lip. "I don't know how often you do interviews –"

"Fuckin' _never_," Tommy informed her. "For this reason."

"If it comes up again, I can help you work through the potential questions that you might get asked and answer in a way that can help keep you from getting riled up. Just tell me when –"

They both jumped a little at the sound of loud, rapid knocking on the door just then. "Liv?"

_You've got to be kidding me. Again?_ Olivia stared at the door, willing Kenny to _shut the fuck up_. Tommy lifted both his eyebrows this time and glanced over his shoulder, then back at Olivia. "Gonna get that?"

"He knows I'm in-session," Olivia said, unable to keep a note of annoyance out of her voice. "He did this last time too with Pa—another patient. The closed door _and _the sign on the door both say that I'm in-session."

The knocking sounded again. "Liv, you there?"

Tommy frowned a little, and Olivia quickly rose from her seat and moved toward the door. She opened it a little, and Kenny was there, peering anxiously at her. A look of relief and something else she couldn't identify fell over his face.

"There you are," he said softly. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Kenny," Olivia began, struggling for every single ounce of patience she possessed. "I believe I let you know before, last week, that when this door is shut and _this sign_" – she stuck her arm out and pointed – "is on the door, that means I'm in with someone at the moment, and you can't interrupt. I know you're coming, and I will get to you at your appointed time. Okay?"

"Okay," he repeated, but his eyes were focused on something just above her shoulder. Olivia turned to see what he was looking at, and stumbled unexpectedly into Tommy's chest, as he was standing right behind her and staring directly at her early patient. There was something in his eyes, she noticed, something in the way he was looking at Kenny. Strong, and – mistrustful.

"Geez, Tommy," she said, unable to keep from taking a subtle whiff of his scent. _Mm. Spicy musky man._ "It's okay – I was coming right back."

"My bad," Tommy said calmly, not taking his eyes off Kenny as he moved to let Olivia pass. She reached behind her to shut the door again.

"Sorry," she said, feeling flustered. "Let's get back."

"It's actually okay," Tommy said. "I think I've said everything I can for tonight, and clearly someone's anxious to talk to you. We only have about ten minutes left. It's cool."

Olivia looked at him doubtfully. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Well," she said, retrieving her appointment book. She hefted it with her notes, and absently reached for the lapel of her jacket to pull it closer over her chest, and then forgot what she was doing as she scanned her notes intently. Then she realized she was just standing there touching her own breast, and that she hadn't finished her sentence, and shook herself. "Sorry. I was just thinking that I think we need to have session more than once a week. Just for now. What do you think?"

Tommy was staring at her hand intently, but immediately shifted his gaze to her face. "Uh, yeah. That's cool. When?"

"Well." Tomorrow was too soon – he needed time to think about what they'd discussed and where he wanted their sessions to go next. Wednesday, she was already booked. Thursday evening, she'd be teaching at the community college. "How about Friday?"

Tommy shrugged and nodded agreeably. "Friday's cool."

"Great." Olivia penciled him in, and then scrawled out the time and date on an appointment reminder card and handed it to him. "Don't forget the techniques I discussed with you, okay? And if you need anything between now and Friday, my work cell is on here."

Tommy nodded again. "Thanks – Olivia."

It took her by surprise and made her feel – _nice_. He'd never called her by her name before, that she could recall. "Call me Liv," she said softly, then shrugged. "If you like."

He nodded again and met her eyes, and Olivia felt her face slowly become suffused in heat. _Ah, shit. Not good not good not good not good._

Tommy broke the eye contact and reached for the doorknob. "Thanks again. See you later." Olivia nodded back and held the door open for Kenny, not missing the menacing look Tommy gave him as Kenny eagerly got to his feet.

"Hey, Liv," Kenny said. "It's good to see you."

Olivia stood back to let him in, unable to help peeking down the hall at Tommy's retreating back. "Yeah. You, too. So. Tell me what's on your mind..."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Hey loves. Here's another one. Thought we'd climb inside Tommy's head following the session. And also there's a requested wank that is NSFW - for you, Mals.**

**Chapter 13**

Of all the things that were spinning in Tommy's mind as he left the office, he couldn't stop thinking that Kenny was a _major _creep – and he needed to find a way to let Olivia know that.

Tommy knew he had above-average people radar, and he could make an assessment about someone fairly quickly. There was nothing necessarily _physically_ off about the guy – mid-forties maybe, thinning light brown hair, big dark brown eyes, somewhat stocky build. Dressed in nice business casual attire. All that was fine; it was the look in his eye in general, and especially when he looked at Olivia, that immediately made the hackles rise on Tommy's back. There was something hungry and – and almost _predatory_ in his eyes.

Not to mention, as soon as Olivia had turned around and crashed into his chest because she hadn't realized Tommy was standing right there, the Kenny guy's eyes immediately fell to her ass and the hungry look became even more pronounced. Now, Tommy knew he himself was one hundred percent guilty of checking out Olivia's hind end when he thought she wasn't looking, but for some reason, it disgusted him that Kenny did it. Really – he wouldn't like it if _any _man did it. Besides himself.

_Possessive much? Over what? She's your shrink. _

Be that as it may, Tommy knew that he was starting to look at Olivia as more than just "his shrink", especially because he was aware of the fact that she wasn't even really that. She was just sort of his _ad interim_ shrink until she could find someone else to work with him.

Which sort of sucked as far as he was concerned; although the shit _sucked_, he _did_ like talking to her about all of his crap, in a weird way. He felt like she really understood him, and genuinely cared and wanted to help him out. There was never any judgment in her eyes when she listened to him, and she always validated his feelings and never told him he was wrong for feeling a certain way. Instead, she would listen to him talk, understand what he was saying (in and of itself an impressive feat; half the time Tommy couldn't make heads or tails of his own shit) and give him advice on what he should do. And dammit if he was fully intent on employing the advice that she'd given him tonight regarding his dreams and his guilt where the situation in Iraq was concerned.

And, well. Okay. She was damn pretty to look at, and she was just so _sweet_. He'd never met a girl as sweet as she seemed to be. Even thinking it made him feel like a chump – he was starting to remind himself of the poor pathetic assholes who went to the strip club and tricked off their entire paycheck on "Jasmine" or "Diamond" or whoever because they were _so sure –_ "Nah, she really likes me! It's not just the money!"

It was Olivia's – _Liv's_ – job to be kind and understanding. He knew that. But, being that he prided himself on his incredible people radar, he also knew there was an element of "the real her" that was present in their sessions. You just couldn't fake the funk where sincerity was concerned, and he could _read_ people. He'd looked into her face, her eyes, and he'd felt truly cared about. In fact –

The memory of the way she'd spoken his name so softly, right before she told him to cut the shit where his sarcasm was concerned, had made him sit up straight. The way she'd said it – that sweetly pleading sort of way, really soft and quiet – God _damn_ if that hadn't made him think of Ma! _No one_ else could say his name like that, and make him feel like even while he was fucking up in some way, to some degree, he was still loved. Shit, it made his heart pound all over again.

_"__Tommy. You don't need to have your defenses up, okay? Not with me."_

And then that smile she'd given him later on, right before she'd told him he was making progress – _progress – _that beautifully triumphant, genuinely excited smile – it had damn near taken his breath away. The look in her pale jade green eyes, the way they'd opened wide a beat before her prettily cut, pouty lips pulled back over straight white teeth in a sincere smile so sweet he couldn't bear to look at it longer than a second made him feel warm all over.

_"__You're making progress, Tommy."_

It didn't feel like it; but she was the professional, after all. She was the one who knew what she was talking about, and her words went straight to his brain, his gut, his heart and his soul. No one had ever said stuff like that to him before. No one had ever cared to. And she cared. Maybe not on a personal level or anything like that, but she _gave a shit_ about his well-being, and she wanted him to be okay. That feeling made him start to feel this _protective_ thing toward her, and it was what made him instantly loathe that Kenny guy.

And that loathing made him decide to sit right where he was, in his truck, in the parking lot, under the shadow of the trees, until their session was over and he saw for himself that dude got in his beater and left, and that Liv got to her car safely. The guy just filled him with intense dislike and if Tommy left now and found out later that Olivia had been – God fucking forbid – _raped _or something and he could have done something to prevent it – he never would forgive himself.

That thought in and of itself – the thought of Kenny touching Olivia – filled him with a fury that made him give himself a questioning look in the rearview mirror. Granted, as a general rule, he hated rape. He hated the violence that was done to women everyday – every news story, every radio announcement, every anti-domestic violence billboard he passed – it all reminded him of Ma. And as a kid he'd done his best to intervene when he could, to save Ma from the drunk, violent storm that was his father. But he'd been a small boy, and then a gangly preteen, and then a skinny teenager, and that had made it really hard to keep Ma safe. He glanced down at his right hand, and ruefully tried to wiggle his crooked pinky finger to no avail. It was a permanent gift from Pop – the result of his attempt, at the age of nine, to protect his mother during yet another heated argument with Pop. If he could recall correctly, it had to do with Pop's affection for the blowzy, cracked-out blonde down at the nightclub and the lipstick on his collar he brought home every night he went down there. And Pop didn't like being called out on his bullshit. Not one bit.

Tommy had seen Ma drop to the ground after the first hit, and then he'd rushed over, panicking at the sight of her bloody nose. He'd grabbed Pop's hand and fingers with a strength borne of adrenaline, and Pop had actually stopped what he was doing to stare at Tommy in complete shock.

"You just try to grab my fingers to break 'em, boy?" Pop had roared, his bloodshot eyes barely open with his drunkenness. "That's how you think you do it?" Lightning fast, surprising for his level of inebriation, actually, he reached out and grabbed Tommy's hand and yanked the pinky. The resulting pain was excruciating, so much so that Tommy couldn't even cry out. "That's how you break a fucking finger, boy. Now get the fuck out of here!" And he'd shoved Tommy to the floor, gripping his hand as pain tore through him, and commenced to beating Ma's ass anyway. Her screams echoed in his mind, but aside from being terrified at what was happening to her, he knew she was also horrified at what had just happened to her son, her baby.

Pop had never taken him to the hospital to fix his finger, and Ma didn't have the money for the necessary surgery to correct the damage. As a result, the bone knitted sloppily, and he'd sustained permanent nerve damage and the inability to ever straighten or otherwise use his pinky ever again.

_Flashback_, he thought, realizing with a start that he'd been _in _that kitchen, a little kid getting his _fucking finger broken_ by his own father, and that his finger suddenly ached with a phantom sensation. He thought about what Olivia had told him, the advice she'd given. Well, this wasn't a dream since he was fully awake. He couldn't rewrite the ending to _that_ little scenario. But maybe he could talk to Ma instead.

_Ma, I'm sorry I wasn't more help that night,_ he thought. _I'm sorry I couldn't stop it. I'd get my finger broken a thousand more times for the chance to just _stop_ it. _

It didn't really make him feel much better, but he was a little calmer now.

All of _that _was why he couldn't leave yet. If he could help it, he wouldn't let anything happen to her. He'd gotten those pricks at the gym to knock off their racist and sexist bullshit comments. He couldn't do much about Mad Dog hitting on her every time he saw her, although that made his blood boil too. But he knew Olivia could be mouthy as hell when she wanted, having been on the receiving end of it, and she could handle her own, as much as he'd love to handle _that_ one for her as well.

_Fuck, I'm like, jealous_, he realized suddenly. _I'm acting like I've got a claim to this woman. I don't. I don't I don't I don't. _

But _why_ did she have to be so damn attractive? Her heart was sweet enough but to look like that too – _shit_. Why couldn't he have gotten the old lady therapist? Or better yet – a dude. But, no. He'd been gifted – cursed? – with the sweet therapist who was beautiful enough to make a man cry and blessed with an ass gorgeous enough to make a priest think sinful thoughts.

His mind turned to that part of her, the one he'd been trying to hold back from this whole time and couldn't any longer. He was pretty sure he had actually salivated a little at the sight of it this evening. Even in those weird funky loose pants she had on, its rounded shape was perfectly on display. In fact, when she'd walked up to him earlier, it was all he could do not to stare. Her beautiful, curvaceous shape was on perfect display today in that body-skimming tank top (black, but sheer enough to where he just _knew_ he could make out the edges of a black lace bra) she wore tucked into her pants, and it showed off her petite, curvy shape. Her narrow waist nipped in at the sides before bowing out into the pretty curves of her hips, and from the side – God _damn. _In addition to her ass, her breasts were equally as tantalizing. He must have put some sort of weird hormonal vibe in the air with his thoughts because the first thing she'd done when she'd unlocked her office was to hurry to the chair behind her desk and wrap herself in a little black suit jacket. And those glasses she'd put on – they'd been so damn cute on her face. It had taken every ounce of willpower to focus on the cute glasses and the pretty face and not the peek of tanned cleavage she showed every time she leaned forward to listen to him – which was a lot. He'd wanted to cuss out loud when she'd been reading both her appointment book and his file at the door – she'd been starting to say something, playing with the lapel of her jacket, and then she must have gotten distracted because all of a sudden her hand stopped moving and it grazed her breast, lingering there as she read –

_Fuck._ His dick was swelling in his jeans now, and he was _not _going to be the perv who rubbed one out in a parking lot. He'd just have to wait until he got home like any other normal, respectable man who couldn't stop thinking about a great set of breasts and a luscious ass. _Stop thinking about them. _It, _stop thinking about it. Fuck-king hell._ He hadn't meant to stare at her before he left, but she'd caught his eye, and then they were looking at each other. And his peripheral vision was sharp enough to see the way her upper chest and neck flushed with color, the dark pinky rose shade suffusing her cheeks, but she refused to look away from him. And her "shrink" façade had disappeared – somehow, on a strange primal level, in that moment, they were just man and woman, staring each other down. And there _had _been something behind her eyes as they stared; he was sure of it. He could practically smell it in the air between them.

He forced himself to leave before he could find out what it was.

And it was just as well. Because if he had to listen to Kenny say "Liiiiv" in that annoying whiny way again, he thought the guy stood a good chance of becoming his second casualty for the day. He did not like that dude, and moreover, he didn't like him around Liv.

_Liv. She said I could call her Liv. _

It seemed oddly unprofessional, though it wasn't an uncommon thing for someone to insist that they be called by a preferred version of their name. But it wasn't unprofessional in a bad way; the way she'd said it was almost like it _created_ that man-woman mode, not shrink-patient mode, that they'd found themselves in a moment later. In fact, there'd been another moment in session like that – when she'd mentioned her mother. Granted, he knew enough to know that she probably should not have told him those things, but he'd kept asking questions. Maybe he shouldn't have done that, but it seemed to him that _she _didn't have a whole lot of people around to talk to if she was opening up so easily to her own patient. _Quasi-patient_, he corrected himself. But it made him like her more – they were similar. They'd both lost mothers who they were really close to, and they both had dads that they weren't overly crazy about. Although Tommy definitely got the idea that he and Paddy were practically besties compared to what Olivia seemed to be going through with her father.

_Dammit, I like her,_ Tommy thought ruefully. He didn't want to like her; in fact, he didn't want to like anybody. He wanted to mind his own fucking business, do what he had to do and move on in his life. He didn't need to meet somebody he _liked _when he was going through this shit. How could he tell if it was real or just a by-product of his pathetic state?

Deep down, he knew it wasn't that. He was going through some rough shit, he _had _admitted that to himself, but he wasn't quite so far gone as to be able to distinguish a "white knight" scenario from genuine respect. She cared about his well-being enough to do right by him professionally; he respected her for that. The pissed off, snappy tone she'd taken on while discussing Colt's brilliant idea of feeding him to a reporter when he clearly wasn't ready had cemented that; she'd truly been pissed, and you just couldn't fake that.

_There._

He roused himself when he saw the front door to the office building open up. Kenny stepped out first, and Tommy didn't see Olivia for a minute, his entire body tensing. _The fuck? _A second later, he relaxed, seeing her step out, wearing her jacket and holding her bag, turning around behind her to lock up. When she faced the door, Kenny turned around too and Tommy's hackles rose again. _Don't even think about it, you prick. I will drop you before you ever touch her. _He bored holes into the back of Kenny's head, and continued to glare even when Olivia finished locking up and turned around. She tried to move to her car, but Kenny kept talking at her. Tommy stealthily rolled his window down, trying to hear what was being said, but he could only hear the faint murmur of voices above the sound of the wind gusting through the trees above him. He looked at the way Olivia kept sidling toward her car, and Kenny kept moving along, still talking. _Get out of her face, man. Let the woman go home. Jesus. _Finally Olivia lifted a hand in a parting wave, nodding her head at whatever Kenny was saying, and Kenny turned to move toward his own car. Tommy followed him with his eyes, unable to keep the scowl off his face. _Keep moving, asshole._ With a final wave, Kenny drove off. _Finally._ Tommy glanced back toward Olivia to make sure she'd gotten safely behind the wheel, and froze.

She was still standing by her car, and her arms were folded over her chest. She was staring in his direction with an odd look on her face.

_Shit. I'm caught._

"Great, now _you're _the creepy stalker," he muttered out loud, and watched in defeat at the way she hurried into her car, started the engine, and drove off. But at least he knew that Kenny hadn't done anything to her. _You're kind of an asshole too,_ a new voice in his head said. _The man is annoying, and shit, she has a great ass, face, body. A blind man would look. Doesn't make the guy Ted Bundy. What makes you think he's not going through some shit, too? _

Feeling suddenly drained now, Tommy turned the engine over and headed for his apartment. It was after eight o'clock by the time he got home, and he was ready to go _straight_ to bed. He planned to get up early tomorrow anyway, to go for a long, hard run and then hit the gym. He realized with a little disappointed pang that tomorrow was Tuesday; Olivia's off-day, and he wouldn't see her again until Thursday morning.

_And she'll probably avoid you like the plague now that she thinks you're a stalker. _Okay, so maybe he was being sort of hard on himself, but he couldn't help the feeling that he _really_ needed her to know that he wasn't being a creep – Kenny was the creep. Then he thought about her ass in those pants again, and the way the light from the lamp in her office shined down into the scoop-neck of her top and illuminated that delicious cleavage, and his dick pulsed in his pants in response. _You are sort of a creep, actually._

Trying to ignore his steadily expanding member, Tommy trudged into his bedroom, stripping down to his boxer briefs and sliding into bed. It was funny; he'd had a pretty physically uneventful day, but the stress of the interview, driving around aimlessly for hours just _thinking_, not to mention ignoring Colt's million phone calls, and his emotional therapy session with Olivia had completely drained all of his energy and he felt like he could sleep for days. As it was, he'd easily be getting eight or nine hours of sleep tonight, the most he'd managed in a _while_, and he planned to relish it, once he could shut his brain off.

And as it twitched inside his boxers again, he thought, _and my cock._

He did his best to ignore it, hoping that if he rolled over onto his stomach it would just go away, but the resulting friction of the movement only made it worse and he actually let out a surprised grunt at the sudden sensation. The slight movement was just enough to take him from mostly hard to fully at-attention, and he flopped on his back with a defeated sigh. There was no escaping this, not tonight, not if he wanted to get some sleep and be rid of the ache that was settling into his balls.

Almost reluctantly, he slipped his hand under the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs and gripped himself. He let his eyes shut as he moved his hand up and down his shaft slowly, squeezing at the tip before moving back down. He imagined that it wasn't his hands touching him, but a pair of the softest hands he'd felt in a _long_ fucking time touching him. And he had just felt those hands – when Olivia had suddenly touched him just when he thought he was about to fall to pieces.

He'd been dimly aware that she'd moved out of her chair, but he'd been struggling so hard to keep _more _tears at bay, and had been feeling physically weak with grief and torment that he hadn't paid much attention. But in a whiff of fragrance – something sweet, and rich, and vanilla-y – she was there, touching his hands that were gripping his own head with hers, and not tentatively. Confidently, gently, and soothingly. And they'd been soft as a baby's ass, and small and _God_, they'd felt good. Granted, he'd jumped and yanked his hands away off of reflex like she'd punched him, but he hadn't been expecting the contact.

Now, he wished he'd sat still and just let her touch him.

Tommy bit his lip as his hand started moving faster in his boxer briefs, his eyes squeezing shut. A naughty little office fantasy spun in his head, and dammit if he didn't feel guilty as hell about thinking of her this way, but he couldn't help it and his dick certainly wasn't letting him stop it. _She gets off the coffee table and on her knees in front of me,_ he thought, his voice rumbling out a low groan. _She reaches up and pulls my head down to kiss me with those pouty lips – yeah. They're as soft as her hands, and plump, and her tongue tastes like honey. Kisses down my neck some to that one spot that drives me fucking insane. _His length expanded even more, and his balls began to tingle with that tell-all sensation that he was getting close to losing his shit. _She kisses all down my stomach and I pull her hair out of that ponytail – fuck, it's long and it feels so good in my fingers, like silk, and she's taking off her top and her bra and goddamn, her tits are fucking gorgeous and I'm touching them, and she's reaching for my jeans and undoing them and pulling the zipper down with her teeth, and I'm hard as a fucking rock and she's taking me out and touching me and then licking me from root to tip and then holy fuck she's pulling me into that mouth and I'm pulling on her hair super hard but she likes it, I can tell, and then she starts sucking the life out of me and using her tongue at the same time, going deeper and deeper without gagging and she's looking up at me and I can tell she loves this shit and I'm saying it out loud and she sucks me harder and deeper – and then I can feel my head slipping down her throat, hitting her tonsils and then ah shit –_

"Ah, _shhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiit,"_ he hissed out loud, as his cock suddenly felt like steel in his hand the instant before he broke, his seed spurting onto his stomach as he strained against his hand. He practically tore a hole in his lip to keep quiet – he knew from very unfortunate personal experience that the walls were paper thin in this place; _thank you, horny couple above me_ – and tilted his head so hard into his pillow he got a crick in his neck.

He grabbed a handful of tissues from his nightstand and cleaned himself up, then lay still on his back, breathing hard through his nose as he worked his fingers into the flesh of his neck, trying to get the knot out. _I just jerked off to a fantasy of my shrink. _

A little sense of shame fell over him – Olivia was so nice, and so sweet, and trying to help him after all, and he'd just made her a sexual object. It could have been anyone, he reasoned to himself. It was just that he'd _just_ seen her, that was it. He tried thinking of someone else – a Victoria's Secret model, maybe, or some actress in a movie or something. He thought of the ones he'd seen that he'd found particularly attractive – and felt nothing. _You did just jerk off,_ he reminded himself. _That doesn't mean –_

Olivia's face from tonight's session, when she had smiled at him and her face had practically lit up with a glow from the sweetness of it, flashed through his mind, immediately followed by fantasy-Olivia seductively winking up at him from her place on her knees on the floor with a mouthful of his cock, and his dick actually jerked a little, like it was trying to come back to life for another round. Tommy decided to ignore the accompanying flutters deep in his gut when he thought of her.

_Pretty sure this nominates you for the creep award. _On the other hand, he thought as sleepiness settled into his bones and his head, he felt totally, strangely calm right now, and hadn't thought about his otherwise shitty day since he'd left her office. Just about her.

_Got the hots for my therapist, _he thought irritably, rolling over onto his side. _Awesome._


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Special thanks to those of you reading and reviewing. I really appreciate the support. And as a token of my affection, I changed the cover image for this story. You're welcome. Also this chapter is mostly (individual) citrus. For those of you wanting real plot arcs here - sowwy. Chalk it up to being inspired by this pic. Yowza. Lots of wanking. Again - sowwy. But enjoy anyway. And be patient..."it's" coming (ha PUNZ!). I'll stop. RRE - please! xoxo**

**Chapter 14**

Every time Olivia walked through the front door of her house – her mother's house – she was enveloped with an almost overwhelming sense of _coming home_. There was no truly adequate way to describe what it felt like; some bittersweet concoction of happiness, comfort, and also sadness. Because the thing that had held everything together at the seams, the source of Olivia's happiness and comfort for so many years – her mother – was gone.

Nonetheless, Olivia understood that this place was her home now, solely hers, and she had to make it her own space in whatever way she could. She'd redecorated over the past few years, changing out her mother's tacky floral sofas and armchairs for something sleeker and more contemporary – a used but still pristine black leather sectional she'd accessorized with cream sofa pillows with black polka dots, a funky cream and black vertically striped tall-backed chair and a matching ottoman, and a sleek black lacquer coffee table that held art books and fashion magazines instead of her mother's old Soap Digests and TV Guides. She'd sold off the giant widescreen TV in favor of a mountable flat-screen, also used. It had been a righteous bitch to get on that wall with no help beyond her general limited knowledge of anything mechanical, but she'd done it, and even if it was a little crooked, it was on that damn wall.

It had been a struggle to decide what to do with her mother's old bedroom, the master bedroom in the house. Ultimately Olivia decided that, as a grown woman and head of the household ("household" to include herself and her Akita, Achilles) she deserved a large space, larger than the childhood bedroom she'd had. So, she had sold off her mother's old bed and nightstand and vanity and purchased herself a used set with the funds. She had kept her mother's gorgeous oak wardrobe, though. Down came the horrible 1970s-esque floral curtains, and Olivia had replaced them with cream accordian shades covered by flowing cream curtains with a subtle, sable zebra print. It was understated and funky, like her personal style.

Gradually over the last few years, the house had become her own. Her mother's presence and taste still lingered in places – like the kitchen – but Olivia needed to make her most intimate spaces completely her own. And she was satisfied with it now.

Achilles met her at the door, wagging happily and squirming around her legs. She crooned to him softly as she locked up behind her and dropped her keys on the side table next to the door, along with her purse. She lugged her satchel and laptop into the living room and set them on the coffee table, then turned to her patient dog, so excited to see his mistress. She knew how badly he wanted to jump up and give her a doggy hug, but he was far too enormous for that, and his diligent training made him sit down on his haunches and tremble with excitement until she finally leaned down and buried both her hands in his thick fur and covered his nose and the top of his head with kisses. He got that look of doggy _derrr _on his face as his ears flopped against the side of his head and his eyes went all squinty when she kissed the extra-soft spot on the top of his skull, just above and between his eyes. He was such a beautiful dog, fully grown at just fifteen months. His face was black, all four legs and belly white, and his back was a gorgeous black and charcoal gray brindle. He was a very large dog, weighing about one hundred thirty-five pounds – a little more than Olivia weighed herself.

Achilles was her best friend and the only significant man in her life, and she didn't mind it that way.

"'Chilles, go outside?" she asked, ruffling his thick and luxuriously soft fur. Achilles' intelligent dark brown eyes grew alert and he whined softly. She led him through the small house to the back, opening the door to a fenced-in yard so he could relieve himself. Somehow, the large dog had acquired the habit of wiping his feet on the rug that rested on the cement in front of the door. Olivia hadn't taught him that and wasn't sure how exactly he'd come to know how to do that, but she appreciated his fastidiousness all the same.

She poured some kibble into his large bowl and refreshed his water, and watched contentedly as he ate his meal. She was exhausted, but she knew that Achilles wouldn't eat in favor of following her to her bedroom to flop on her bed with her. She hated leaving him alone most of the day, but tried to make up for it on weekends by taking him on jogs and long walks.

When he'd demolished his food, Olivia double-checked the house and made sure all locks were locked and all shades and curtains were drawn, and went into her bedroom, waiting for Achilles to trot in after her before she closed and locked the door. He circled once and then flopped down on the wooden floor, half his body the large rug she'd put down, and put his head on his paws. He had a habit of beginning the night on the floor, right in front of the door, as though he were guarding her for a while to make sure that nothing was going to come through the door. Eventually, usually long after Olivia drifted off, Achilles would make his way onto the bed and stretch out at the foot, on top of her feet. Olivia decided she'd have to pity anyone who decided to try to break in; while Achilles was a sweet, patient and playful dog, she knew from experience while out jogging or walking with him that he did _not_ like strangers – his hackles rose on his back and he'd growl, low enough to almost not be heard. Sometimes he even showed teeth, and he was truly scary in those moments.

As Achilles dozed in front of her door, Olivia changed out of her clothes into a simple shift and washed her face before flopping into bed. _God_. She was so tired. Her body ached for rest, but her mind couldn't seem to slow down. It had been a long day, and a full evening – Tommy's session had been emotionally very difficult but she was so incredibly proud of him – he'd really opened up to her. He'd really let some of that poison that flooded him out of his body and she firmly believed he was well on his way to making progress. It had been wonderful to see.

But…what had he been doing in the parking lot?

She frowned as she recalled it. After her session with Kenny – wherein he spent his hour bemoaning his loneliness and how his ex-wife had left a hole in his heart that only one person could fill, but supposedly this other person wasn't aware of his feelings and he was too scared to tell her or something – she'd walked out with him and locked up, and it had taken fucking forever to tell the man that he was going to be okay, that things were going to get better, that he _was_ a man of worth, and so on. By then she'd just really wanted to get home to her dog and go to bed but Kenny seemed to be trying to extend their time together. Finally he'd relented and gone on his way, and Olivia realized that Tommy's truck was still in the lot, next to a tree. She almost hadn't noticed it, because it was black and the windows were tinted, but the lamp next to the building had cast a gleam on the shiny paint and she saw him sitting there, window rolled down. Interestingly enough, he wasn't staring at her – he'd been staring after Kenny with a dark, wary look on his face.

Then he'd turned and caught Olivia looking at him, and something like a sheepish expression had crept over his features.

And Olivia had been so confused that she'd just hustled her ass toward her car and driven off.

Now, as she lay in bed, she was just so curious as to why he'd been there – had he needed to talk about something else? Had he decided he needed to change his appointment? She remembered the way he'd looked when Kenny had shown up early and rudely. The dislike Tommy seemed to have was evident in every rigid line of his muscular body, not to mention plain on his face. She couldn't imagine why. Kenny was annoying, for _sure_, but he wasn't dangerous or anything.

Maybe he was just trying to make sure that she got out of there and on her way home okay. Olivia looked up at the ceiling, feeling suddenly warm. Tommy had a good heart underneath all that anger and pain, she was certain of it. And he was a Marine. He was – chivalrous. She could tell. It seemed like something he would do.

She wondered what would have happened if danger had been imminent. It was so dumb, she knew, but she couldn't stop her mind from spinning a little fantasy of Tommy rushing to her defense. How his face would go all angry and frowny and how he'd pummel whoever was trying to hurt her into submission. She'd seen him in the ring. And she knew what he looked like when he was angry and physical. Another flash of heat streaked through her, all the way down to that thick, sensitive flesh between her thighs. There was just something to be said for a man who possessed the ability to beat the shit out of pretty much anyone – being physically gentle with someone else. Like a woman.

_Oh, hell._ She couldn't stop it now. Envisioning Angry Tommy coming to her defense and witnessing the brutality that she knew he was capable of was such a damn turn-on. And then envisioning him channeling that anger into passion, gentling that brutality in his caresses made her flesh pulse a little more intensely, and she knew she was dampening. _Why did you go there? _Her hand slipped down between her legs and she bit her lip when her fingers threaded through her flesh. _Yep. Wet. Shit. _It didn't help at all that she'd seen him several times with no shirt on, covered in tattoos and muscles. Seen the way his back flexed as he swung his arms and dodged and feinted and kicked. And suddenly, in her mind's eye, his flexing back wasn't flexing because he was fighting; it flexed because he was working away hard between the legs of some woman underneath him, clawing at his back with her legs wrapped around his waist.

Some woman that happened to be her.

In a weird, delicious voyeuristic fantasy of herself, Olivia's mind allowed her to look down on them from above, watching as Tommy funneled all the raw strength and power he possessed into not violence, but passion, hell-bent on making her reaching a mind blowing orgasm. And then she was suddenly in her own body, underneath him, and she could _feel_ his breath on her neck, his tongue on her flesh, and his rock-hard, thick and long member sheathing itself in her, pulling out of her, and driving back into her again with all the precision and practice he exuded when he was executing strikes and kicks in a cage or a ring somewhere. In her fantasy, and in real life, it took her breath away.

Her fingers moved in and out of herself fast and hard, and she was hardly aware she was doing it. Her knees were pulled up to her chest and her two fingers weren't her fingers, but Tommy, and she felt pressure rising and building as she pictured him before her with her ankles on his shoulders, as he dug into her hips with his fingers. He'd be a little rough, but sweet and attentive, she knew that on some strange, primal, intrinsic level. But she didn't mind a little roughness; in fact, the thought of it with him thrilled her. His hands would be so firm on her, his lips and tongue would be direct and purposeful when they invaded her mouth, his fingers would be nimble and clever as they stimulated her pearl at the same time he thrust in and out of her hard and fast. And suddenly she could see him, in all his naked, tattooed glory, a look of concentration on his face as he worked inside her, making sure she got just what she needed, just what she needed to –

Olivia let out a hoarse cry, knowing that Achilles was startled, but she couldn't do anything about it as waves of pleasure washed over her and her body convulsed. Her mind wasn't finished; Tommy would be the kind of guy to hold her close as she was coming, the kind who took his own pleasure from her reaching hers. He would be saying things in her ear – she didn't know what, exactly, but things that would make her smile and want to cuddle up next to him all night. He might not be a cuddler exactly, but he would want to be touching her all night. Maybe she'd just let him sleep on top of her, between her thighs, until he grew hard inside her and they could do it all over again.

Her walls were slick and tight around her fingers, pulsing gently with the aftershocks of her climax, and Olivia came back to herself finally. She withdrew her fingers and got up to go to the bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror. Her hair was mussed and her cheeks were ruddy, her eyes bright. A surge of disappointment hit her when she accepted that it had been nothing more than a fantasy. A _delicious_ one, to be sure, but just a fantasy. She knew she'd feel bad, feel guilty, and forget about it in the morning since she was yet again sexualizing him, a patient. But for now, she realized that she wanted him so bad, she could taste it.

She washed her hands and returned to bed. Maybe it wasn't that she wanted _him_, her mind struggled to rationalize, but that she wanted _sex_. It had been an extremely long time since she'd had sex and even though her body had eventually gone numb to the hormones, it seemed like they'd sparked back to life at the sight of some tattoos and muscles.

_He's way more than that and you know it. _She did know it, but she didn't feel like admitting that to herself. _I can be in denial if I want._

She rolled over onto her stomach and heaved a sigh. Trying to not be attracted to Tommy was utterly pointless. It was like trying to take a shower without getting wet. Just couldn't happen. And now, picturing him in the act of intercourse with her had just cemented that attraction. She didn't know how she could continue to work with him without making her interest clear, but she had to – the help he needed was so apparent, and he was opening up to and with her in a way she believed he probably never had with anyone else.

_I'm just going to have to work really hard at listening and not looking at him_, she decided. _That's it. Because if I look at him, all I'm going to think about is climbing onto his lap and riding him on the couch. _She sucked in a breath as the image and then the fantasy mind-movie hit her like a sledgehammer. _Nononono. Can't do that. Can't think about that. Just stop!_

But she couldn't, and now she was wet again. _Fucking. Hell. _She gave in, knowing that trying to combat it when she was alone was useless, and reached down between her legs again as she rolled to her back. It was fast this time, her tiny pearl hard and prominent and ready. All it took was imagining that sinfully luscious mouth of his between her legs and she was finished, a sharp, hard orgasm barreling into her. She bit her lip this time to stifle the moan so as not to upset Achilles, and breathed deeply through her nose to calm herself before she finally collapsed against her pillow, heart hammering and body spent.

_Okay,_ she reasoned with herself. _We're just gonna keep it right here. Right here to ourselves, in this room. It stays in the room. In the office we're working. We're helping and we're working and we're focusing. On Tommy. On his problems. Not his body or his face. Or his lips. Or his butt. His problems. And helping him. No one has to know what we think about at night. _

Achilles let out a low, whiny growl. One that Olivia personally interpreted to sound a little judgmental. She lifted her head and pointed.

"You better not say anything to anyone," she said in a vaguely threatening tone. "And don't you judge me." Achilles made the same noise and lowered his head to his paws, looking up at her. "I'm helping him. I _am_ helping!"

He whined again, then lifted his head and let out a short bark, then jumped onto the foot of the bed. He turned his massive body around once in a circle, then curled up with his head on her foot. It was a good way to distract her from her hormones – her motherly feelings toward her dog took over, and cooled her off considerably. She felt suddenly sleepy and lowered her head to the pillow, her eyelids growing heavy.

Her last thought before drifting off was wondering how Tommy was sleeping tonight.

* * *

At about two in the morning, Tommy was up again. In more ways than one.

He groaned sleepily and scrubbed a hand down his face. He had just woken up from a dream – about his therapist. He knew, he _knew_, that rubbing one out to a fantasy about Olivia _right_ before bed had been a bad fucking idea. He wasn't sure what he'd been dreaming about for the last few hours, but what he had _just_ been dreaming about had been enough to make him tent in his shorts to the point of aching.

It had started with a kiss, and ended with a kiss – of sorts.

They'd been in her office again, in session, and he'd been talking about something difficult. Of course. And then Olivia had gotten out of her seat to come over and sit on the edge of the coffee table, covering his hands with hers. He'd looked up, seen her sitting there, but instead of jerking away from her like he'd done before, he'd sat there and just looked at her. At her pale green eyes and her pouty lips.

And then she'd kissed him.

He hadn't even been aware that she was leaning toward him, but her hands were suddenly gently holding his face and her soft, moist full lips were against his. It had been sweet and tentative at first, and then he'd lost his fucking mind and grabbed two handfuls of hair and then his tongue was in her mouth and God. Damn. It all. She was sweet and hot and eager and shaking.

Somehow they'd ended up on the couch which for some reason wasn't the couch that was actually in her office but reminded him a lot of the old corduroy couch from Paddy's house that smelled like smoke and booze. But it didn't matter because he could only smell her and he was pressing her into the couch and grinding between her legs and losing himself in her mouth.

Then she was whispering in his ear and just the sound of her husky whisper laced with lust was enough to make him want to bust inside his jeans like a teenager but he held it together. "_Tommy, I'm wet_." He'd vocalized something in response to that, not sure what. Apparently Dream Olivia had found it agreeable because she bit her lip and moaned a little and repeated her statement. "_Tommy, I'm so wet. Touch me. Please_."

It wasn't a request. It was definitely an order. In his bed, Tommy realized he was squeezing himself again and finally gave it over, losing himself in recalling his dream.

He'd slipped his hand under her skirt – apparently she'd been wearing a skirt that he had no idea now what it looked like – and found she had on no panties and that made him go insane. His fingers had parted her satiny folds, thick and hot, and she'd been so slick with her special moisture that he'd growled out in appreciation. He breached her with two fingers, slipping into her tight warmth and she'd moaned again, her head falling back. He'd worked his fingers inside her, coating them in her wetness and imagining it was his own cock, which was like steel in his hand at the moment. Her walls gripped his fingers tight whenever he hooked them upward and stroked that magical spot inside a woman that made her lose her shit and she got even wetter.

He'd been contemplating leaning forward to sample her nectar when she'd lifted her head, stared right at him, and whispered imperiously, "_Taste me, Tommy_."

He'd heard her, loud and fucking clear, but still asked, "_What?_"

"_You heard what I said. Eat this pussy, Tommy. Now_."

_Ah, fucking fuck yeah I will._ "_Yes, ma'am_," he'd whispered back to her, and pulled his fingers out, gripping her thigh and slicking her wetness on her skin, and dove forward, capturing the soft lips between her legs in his mouth and on his tongue. In bed, Tommy's dick grew impossibly hard and he pumped himself faster and harder. Back inside his dream again, Tommy feasted away on Olivia's flesh, his tongue parting her slit and entering her, making her shriek with pleasure, before scooping as much of her into his mouth as he could manage, suckling her pearl hard and working his tongue against it in slow, firm sweeps. Her hand had wound into his hair and she'd been incoherent, hissing and muttering as she ground herself against his mouth.

And then – and _then_ – she'd said it.

"_Ay, Dios, Tommy_," she'd moaned. "_Ay__. __Dámelo__, papi. __Dámelo…ahora…" _

In bed, Tommy hissed as the onset of his orgasm started tingling in his balls and began spreading throughout his groin. Maybe it was bad porn and all those men's magazines but his secret fantasy was to have a girl call him "papi" in bed. But this was even more awesome because Olivia _was_ actually Latin, and sexy, and curvy, and she tasted like a fucking gourmet caramel flan. In the dream, he redoubled his efforts at eating her thoroughly until her sweetness broke in his mouth and he drank her honey down. In real life, his hand pumped furiously and then he was breaking for the second time, into the wad of tissues he held ready. He could still taste her, his imagination and his desire for her had been that damn strong. Her flesh had been so soft and swollen and hot and wet and sweet in his mouth that if he could do that every single day to her he'd be a happy, happy man.

_Except for the minor detail where she's your shrink. And your dad's shrink. And she could have any guy she wants – she doesn't need to deal with your shit on top of trying to become a doctor. A fucking _doctor _for chrissakes, what the hell are you going to do with _that, _Conlon?_

Fuck it. He knew he wasn't good enough to actually be with her in real life, not that he'd even try. But he could think of her here. Trying to think of anyone else was useless; he knew he was catching feelings for Olivia, and it was just more than her outward sexiness.

She was the type of girl he'd have proudly brought home to meet his mother. He knew she was; he just knew it.

_Getting ahead of yourself,_ he thought abruptly. _In fact, getting _nowhere_, 'cause that shit will never happen anyway. Even if Ma was still alive._

He tossed the tissues into the trash can by his nightstand and rolled over, sighing. It figured – he'd found a woman he was actually interested in, and she was way out of his league. She was on the cusp of greatness, with her degree and her business and everything. Even if she were interested in him like that, he couldn't do that to her; no woman should be dumb enough to buy into Tommy Conlon's extra-special brand of emotional shit.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Shooting a TV ad, even a local one, for the gym was a weird experience.

There were people and cameras and lights, a director type person, a microphone attached to a boom. There was someone fussing with his hair – his _hair_ – and someone else dabbing his face with a powder puff to take out the shine.

This was both easier and harder than the interview. He felt like a fucking prima donna.

Colt had told him he could wear his normal gym clothes but that they had to be clean and ironed – no wrinkles. Colt was going to be doing the talking, and Tommy was just supposed to be in the background punching a bag. They said they were going to do some close-ups of him on the bag as well, and that they'd be featured in the ad.

But Tommy did have one line. He was supposed to say, "If you really want to be a knockout in the ring, come to Colt's."

Lame.

But he was willing to do just about anything short of prostitution to get into Sparta, so if he had to spew twenty more lame-ass lines like this one, he'd do it with a smile.

He hadn't spoken to Colt since the interview the day before. Colt had spoken to _him,_ little things here and there like "stand over here", "look at the bag", "speak louder", "you look shiny still". Nothing regarding the day before. But Tommy knew the man well enough by now to know that what happened yesterday would be addressed. He sighed inwardly. It was one thing to talk about shit with Olivia. It was quite another to talk about shit, _his_ shit, with someone like Colt.

The commercial, the little thirty-second spot, took about two hours to film. Tommy was shocked. He'd thought it would be a breeze, no more than fifteen minutes tops, but between setting up all the equipment, shooting from different angles, shooting with just Colt, with just Tommy, with the both of them together, the crew stopping for smoke breaks, touch-ups, re-dos, and other things – two hours flew by and he barely even realized it.

When they were done filming the director reached out to shake hands with Colt. "Great job, guys," he said enthusiastically. "We're gonna have somethin' great here. I'll email you a copy of the final cut before it gets sent to the local stations. Maybe we can get the news to preview the spot too."

"Hey, I appreciate the time," Colt replied smoothly. "Maybe we can do somethin' else in the future."

"Absolutely." The director nodded. He shook hands again, and then packed up his crew and his equipment, and left.

Colt turned to Tommy. "So what did ya think?"

Tommy shrugged. "It was okay. I guess. I mean I liked that I didn't have to say much or be on camera too much."

"Oh, don't worry," Colt said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're gonna get plenty of screen time." Tommy winced. He didn't particularly like the way that sounded.

"Whatever helps my chances," he replied. Then he sighed and faced Colt, folding his arms. "So come on. Out with it. I know you're just dyin' to tear my ass apart about yesterday."

Colt sighed too. "I thought about it," he admitted. "You fucked up bad yesterday, Tommy, and I'm not sure you fully understand that. That interview was supposed to show people that you're mature, you're grown up, you're not the little jerk who knocks people the fuck out and then storms off, or who lies about their fuckin' identity 'cause the Army's after you. 'Cause you _deserted_."

Tommy winced again. "Marines," he corrected darkly.

"Marines. Whatever." Colt waved his hand in a dismissive way that made Tommy want to punch him in the face. "The point is, you had an opportunity to show not just J.J. Riley but the _world_ somethin' different and you didn't. You pulled the same shit."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tommy couldn't have heard him correctly. "You were sitting right there, Colt, you heard that guy fuckin' comin' at me, going too far, asking some really personal shit – _that_ was fucked up!"

"Listen." Colt held up a hand, patting the air. "Listen. I get that. That's why I decided _not_ to rip your ass apart despite the fact that you _did_ fuck it up. I get it. I can't blame you. Had he said some of that shit to me, I'd have wanted to punch his teeth down his throat, too. But listen, Tommy. You can't afford to get an attitude every time someone asks you something you don't like. The world is _full_ of people like that, and it happens every day. What's more, if you get a spot at Sparta II, you're _going_ to do interviews. Whether you like it or want to or not, you _will_ do interviews. And those reporters were there last year, they know all about you and Brendan, and their questions are gonna be ten times worse. So, what – you gonna bash all their fuckin' heads in every time you get asked a question you don't like?"

Tommy took in a deep breath. The man had a point. "No," he muttered.

"That's right. _No._ Not if you want to be taken seriously in this fuckin' world. Yesterday was a test, a test that J.J. Riley demanded of you, and you failed."

Tommy looked at him miserably. "So now what? What are you saying?"

Colt stared back at him, then let grin cross his face. "I'm sayin', you got the best fuckin' manager in the world, is what I'm sayin'."

Tommy looked at him sharply. "What's that mean?" he demanded.

"That means, bro, that I smoothed things out with the reporter and paid him under the table to take the interview you gave him and spin it into somethin' actually positive. Little change of words here and there, and you're gonna be a fuckin' saint, not a savage."

"He's gonna…change the interview?" Tommy asked doubtfully.

"_Yup_. Goes to print for tomorrow's paper, and I'm mailin' J.J. Riley a copy so he can see just how nice Tommy Conlon is these days." Colt lifted his eyebrows. "Say thank you."

Tommy wasn't sure that what was going down was entirely ethical, but then again, he didn't know jack shit about the world of journalism and if it was going to ultimately help him out and get him into the tournament, he was all for it. _Consider it a lesson learned_, he told himself. _Play nice. At all times._

"Thanks," he said finally. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it."

"Yeah, yeah," Colt said. "Listen. Just make sure you handle these interviews better, all right? I would try to line up another one for you, but I don't want to take the risk of that shit happening again before Sparta II. Not everyone's as flexible as Billy is."

_Or greedy_, Tommy thought.

"Speaking of lining up things. I got you another fight." Colt fixed him with a stern look and Tommy's stomach turned over in a strange mix of nerves and eager anticipation. "On Tuesday. In a week. Same place. Now, you listen." Colt stepped closer and one hand gripped Tommy's shoulder while the other folded into a fist and poked him in the chest. "I don't know what the fuck happened to you on Friday, I don't know if you can control that shit, I don't know and I don't really care, to be quite honest with you. All I know is that you gotta _win_ this fucking fight, Tommy, you hear me? You gotta _win_ this shit – this is the last chance you got at Sparta. You need to play nice, and you need to fucking win. I don't know who you'll be fighting yet but I'm workin' on it. Can you do this?"

The words echoed in Tommy's ears and he frowned. He didn't know if he could do it. He couldn't control his flashbacks or when they happened or how they were triggered – he just didn't know. Instead, he looked Colt right in the eye.

"I can do it."

Colt smiled in relief at the confidence in Tommy's voice – confidence he didn't actually feel. "Fuckin' A right you can do it. That's my champ. Listen. You're gonna do great, you're gonna win, you're gonna go to Sparta. Yeah? All right. Gotta get the equipment back together now that the crew's gone and re-open this place. I want you to go get a good lunch and then come back here ready to work. You can do that?"

"Got you," Tommy said.

"All right. See you back here in about an hour."

As Tommy left the gym, his stomach growled furiously as though it had also heard Colt tell him it was lunchtime. He'd woken up at five that morning and gone for a vigorous five mile run, completing it in just under forty minutes. He'd come back to his apartment, and eaten oatmeal and eggs, showered, and then had gone back to bed when he checked his phone and had realized he had that _stupid_ ad to shoot in the morning that he'd completely forgotten about thanks to a text message reminder from Colt to be at the gym around nine-thirty to begin the shoot at ten. Thankfully Tommy had already done laundry a couple nights before, so all he'd had to do was iron his gym clothes – in and of itself a ridiculous fucking thing to do – and then proceed to the gym. He'd eaten a protein bar somewhere in there between takes but now he was famished.

He decided to walk down the street toward the sub shop and stood in line to order a grilled chicken sub on a whole grain hoagie with light teriyaki sauce and veggies. He added a bag of baby carrots and a bottle of unsweetened ice tea to his order, and carried it to the outdoor seating area. Just as he was about to take his first monstrous bite, his phone rang. Annoyed, he set his sandwich down and fished his phone out of his pocket. Brendan.

"What's up, bro?" Tommy asked, and chomped into his sandwich.

"Hey, Tommy," Brendan said warmly. The sound of love in his brother's voice gave Tommy a chill; he just couldn't imagine anyone sounding so _happy_ to speak to him. "How you doin'?"

Tommy held the phone away from his mouth while he finished chewing. "I'm alright. How are you?"

"You good from the other night?" Brendan asked, completely ignoring Tommy's question. "I was – _am_ – really worried about you, man. Didn't hear from you all weekend. You never texted me back."

_Oh. Shit. _"Uh, yeah," Tommy said uncomfortably. "Sorry about that. I saw your message. I meant to, I just – got sidetracked."

"If you wanted space, I get it," Brendan said. "I just, you know, wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I'm alright," Tommy replied. He didn't feel like explaining the absolute disaster the interview the day before had been, so he decided to change the subject. "Hey, I shot the ad this morning."

"For the gym?" Brendan sounded interested. "Awesome. How'd that go?"

"Crazy that the shit took two hours for a thirty-second commercial," Tommy said.

Brendan laughed. "Yeah. Welcome to the world of ads and endorsements. So this means you get Sparta? Wait, weren't you supposed to do an interview too or somethin'? Pop said something about that."

_Fuck me._ "Yeah, about that," Tommy mumbled. He stalled by taking a swig of tea. "That was yesterday. Look, Bren, short story is that it didn't go well, and I don't really wanna get into it, okay?"

"Okay," Brendan replied without missing a beat, completely nonplussed. "So. Now you've fulfilled your two requirements to get into Sparta. Still don't think that's a good idea, by the way, little bro, but now what?"

Tommy felt the first stirring of irritation. "Well, since I lost the fight on Friday, Colt is hooking me up with another one. In a week. Same place."

"How is _that_ fair?" Brendan demanded. "He said two things – the interview and the ad. You've done them. How does he get to make _more _stipulations?"

"Brendan, that's just the way it goes, you know?" Tommy said, trying to keep his temper in check. "I'm not complaining. We're talking seven mil on the line here."

"I don't personally give two shits of one fuck if we were talking twenty mil," Brendan replied calmly. "I'm talking about right and wrong, and I'm talking about how I think your manager is an unethical, slimy asshole who tries to take advantage of you and who exploits things you're obviously struggling with."

Tommy glared down at the remnants of his sandwich. He wasn't sure why he felt so offended right now when he knew that his big brother was only looking out for him. "Don't talk about Colt like that," Tommy said in a low voice. "He's doing his best to help me out. He's getting me fights, endorsements, he's looking out for me."

"He's looking out for _himself_," Brendan replied bluntly. "Tommy, all you are is dollar signs to that guy. He doesn't give a shit about your well-being – hence the fact that he threw you into a fight last weekend that you weren't ready for."

"I was fucking ready!" Tommy hissed angrily. "I had that guy by the balls. It wasn't my fault I lost my shit there for a second!"

"I'm not saying it was," Brendan said, using a calmer tone and what Tommy thought of as his "teacher voice". It made him feel placated, and that angered him more. "I'm saying that he should have known that you've got some issues that you're dealing with, and bringing you into an environment like that one probably wasn't very healthy for you."

"What, are _you_ gonna try to shrink me now, too?" Tommy exclaimed. "I already got one of those, okay, Brendan? And she _is _helping me with my 'issues' so I don't need any more help. Not from you, not from Pop, not from Colt, not from nobody. I'm here to _fight_, and make money, and that's _it._ So you either support me as my brother, or you need to get the fuck out of my way."

Brendan was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, sure, Tommy," he said lightly. "You got it. I'm here for you. Cut me some slack, willya? You're my baby brother. I'm just lookin' out for you. I got my opinions, but I'll keep 'em to myself. For now."

It was the best he was going to get, and Tommy took it, because now he felt bad for biting Brendan's head off. He sighed heavily, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt a massive headache coming on. "I – it's cool, Bren," he muttered. "Listen. I gotta get going. Okay? Give Tess a hug and kiss the girls for me, willya?"

"Of course," Brendan replied in an even tone that let Tommy know his feelings were hurt. "They all miss you. Me too, okay? Take care of yourself, little bro."

"Yeah," Tommy said. "You, too." He hung up before Brendan could say anything else and used all of his willpower to resist hurling his phone into oncoming traffic. He didn't know why he was feeling so angry, but as he clenched his hands into fists, he figured it was a good thing that he was heading back to the gym.

He needed to hit something. Hard.

* * *

He got his wish – for the next five hours, Colt ran him through drills, footwork, sparring and weights and back again. Tommy did everything with a single-minded focus – he'd been humbled on Friday night. He'd lost. And it wasn't going to happen again, because Tommy Conlon didn't lose.

Brendan was supposed to be his only loss, and it was one that he welcomed.

Thinking of his loss on Friday night filled him with new rage and determination, and he relentlessly pummeled the punching bags. He tirelessly lifted the weights, and he nailed his footwork drills perfectly. He sparred in the ring with Fenroy, who for a moment looked a little afraid of Tommy's countenance. But Tommy wasn't seeing Fen; he was seeing the faceless enemy he couldn't seem to name or get a grasp on. So, he attacked it with everything he had.

Fen put up a good fight, but Tommy got him to tap out almost every time. He thought that would be more polite to his old buddy than knocking him the fuck out.

It wasn't Fen. Fen did nothing wrong. Tommy was just so _pissed off._

When six o'clock rolled around, Colt approached him and hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder. "Good work today, Tombo," he said tentatively. "You were, uh – intense. But I'm glad to see your focus. You'll need it on Tuesday. You win for me, okay, champ? Now, get home and get some rest. I'll see you back here tomorrow morning."

Wordlessly, Tommy left. He went home and showered, contemplated food because he knew he was supposed to be eating, but decided he didn't feel like it. He began to pace restlessly around his living room in his track pants and nothing else; he shoved aside the blinds that covered the sliding glass doors that led out onto his deck and leaned against the cool panes of glass, staring outside.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

On a surface level, he knew what he was doing. He was training his ass off for a chance to win seven million dollars. That was his job right now – wake up, train, eat, train, eat, train some more, go home, sleep, wake up and do it all over again. And if he got the nod for the tournament, he wasn't guaranteed to win. He'd probably win. He knew his chances were excellent, because he was talented. But he wasn't guaranteed.

He'd thought he'd been guaranteed with Brendan, and that hadn't turned out in his favor.

But what was he _doing_?

He glanced at the display on his cable box. Six-thirty. Normal people at this hour on a Tuesday were getting home from work. A wife, maybe a husband, was putting dinner on the table and the other spouse was pulling the kids from where they were playing or working on their homework so they could all sit down together and eat as a family. Then the parents would clean up the kitchen, chat quietly with each other, the kids would return to their play or their homework, and then everyone would go to bed and wake up and do _that_ all over again.

Normal people didn't work their asses into the ground – unpaid – for a chance _to _get paid. Normal people got educations, they learned trades, they got jobs. Then they had families and went to church and took vacations together. Husbands had wives that they loved completely and made love to _only them_ and no one else. They treated their kids like cherished gifts – guiding them, loving them, laughing with them, playing with them, disciplining them only when necessary and only so far as to make them see the error of their ways, not destroy them.

That was what normal people did.

He knew he'd never been normal. Bren – Bren was normal _now_. Bren had that normal, expected, happy life _now. _But he hadn't started out that way. Normal for them was being taken care of by Ma, who was exhausted and sick and tired. Normal for them was taking on adult responsibilities at a _way_ young age. Normal for them was living in fear and walking on eggshells around the ticking, violent time bomb that was Paddy. Normal for them was getting beat for stuff like chewing with their mouths open at the ages of six and eight; forgetting to put their shoes away. And later, especially in Tommy's case, intervening on behalf of their mother to ensure that _this _time, _tonight _– she wasn't going to die. She might get slapped around, she might get yelled at – but she wasn't going to _die._

Tommy pondered that one for a minute and realized that one of his fears as a child was that Paddy would actually beat Ma _to death._

In a way, he had.

He needed to do something with his life, he decided. He needed to find a new avenue. He was good at fighting, he was comfortable with fighting, he could make damn good money with fighting. But it wasn't what he wanted to do forever.

Tommy thought, maybe one day, at least, he'd like to have a kid or two of his own. And he wanted to do shit like coach the softball team, the soccer team, maybe. Teach his kids (boy or girl – valuable skill no matter what) how to throw a football, how to ride a bike, how to throw a punch, take them fishing. But most of all, he wanted to be respected by his children – respected because he _earned _their respect, not because they were scared into it. He wanted respect through love. He wanted to show up at the parent-teacher conferences in nice business-casual clothes or some shit – not like what he had on now. He didn't want to talk to their teachers or their friends' parents with a black eye and a fat lip. He wanted to – to – shit, go _golf_ with some random fucktard named Tim or something whose son played with Tommy's son on the basketball team. Just _whatever_.

He wanted something different.

Tommy shook himself, wondering where the _hell_ those thoughts had all come from. Kids? Conferences? _Golf_? What the hell was wrong with him?

He thought he might have gotten a little ahead of himself with those thoughts, but he knew that the one where he wanted something different, something more for himself stuck. He didn't want to fight for the rest of his life. He _did_ want to do something different. He also knew he wasn't cut out for the nine-to-five life. Despite his military career, he didn't really do well with authority. If you were in dress blues, that was one thing. If you were some chump in a suit trying to order him around – that was entirely different. He couldn't see himself folded into a tiny-ass cubicle for twenty, thirty years.

No. He needed to have his own.

He'd thought about this when he first got released from Leavenworth. He'd thought about other things he could do. He knew he wanted to own his own business. He'd thought briefly about opening up his own gym, and it was actually a pretty sound idea. The problem was, it wouldn't allow him to escape from the world he was in, and that's what he wanted. He loved fighting in a way; he had some good experiences, good memories and good money from it. And instinctively he knew he'd always be "Tommy Conlon, MMA fighter" to his community. But he wanted, he _needed_, to do something different.

He frowned out the window. Cars, maybe. He'd always been handy with the shit under the hood. Detailing, oil changes, fixing transmissions and tires.

Yeah. Cars.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and searched for the address of the community college. Maybe he could run down there tonight and grab some brochures or something for their automotive program, check out the campus. Just to get a feel for it. Just to see.

He went into his bedroom for a shirt, shoes, and a ball cap, grabbed his keys, and left. The community college was a nice jaunt from his place, but it was doable nonetheless. He was surprised to see that it was near PNC Park; with as many times as Tommy had been there, he'd never paid attention to the fact that Allegheny Community College was right theretoo.

There were signs that pointed to the student services center, so he followed them, and parked his truck in some available visitor's parking. He was surprised to see the number of students milling around; he expected it to be bare bones given the hour, but he supposed that more students took night classes than he figured.

The offices were closed by now, he noticed that as he walked inside the brightly lit center. But there were shelves of brochures boasting the college's various programs, and he stopped to look at them. He saw some pamphlets and leaflets regarding the automotive program, so he grabbed them. He noticed that business cards were stapled to them with a contact name and number.

Maybe he'd call in a few days or something. Just to see.

"Tommy?"

He jumped a little, glancing up. He blinked in surprise, seeing Olivia walking toward him with a huge stack of files in her arms. He immediately flushed as memories of his naughty fantasies about her came rushing back to him. Funny, he hadn't thought about her "like that" all day since he'd been so busy. But now, seeing her in the flesh, he couldn't think of anything but. He looked down, hoping he wasn't as red as he felt, and took a deep breath. He _especially_ didn't need to start thinking of her like that right now in his flimsy track pants that would do absolutely nothing to hide his massive hard-on the way jeans could.

He glanced back up as she reached him. Her long, medium brown hair was in a loose braid over one shoulder, and she wore a slouchy, pale gray T-shirt that hung off one shoulder with ripped denim shorts and little strappy white sandals. He noticed her cheeks seemed a little bit flushed too, but he chalked that up to her being a relatively small girl carrying an undoubtedly wicked heavy pile of documents.

"Hey," he replied, trying not to look at the softly curved bronzed shoulder peeking out at him. "What are you up to?"

"Just about to ask _you_ that," she replied with a sweet smile. He couldn't look at it and swallowed and averted his eyes. "I forgot to pick up all these files yesterday and I need them for my research. I get so confused bouncing around between campuses and offices that I do this all the time. I was settling down to work on my dissertation and realized I didn't have the materials I needed and remembered I left them here. So what are you doing here?" She glanced at the brochures in his hand, craning her neck to look at them more closely. "Are you thinking about taking classes here?" She blinked up at him, and her pale green eyes went wide in that way they did when she smiled really genuinely, like she was doing now.

"Yeah, thinking about it," he replied, looking down at the pamphlets so he wouldn't get swallowed up in the sweetness of her smile. "Decided to come down here and poke around I guess. Thought about taking a walk around here and seeing which building these classes would be in."

"Oh, the automotive program is housed in the West Hills campus," Olivia replied. "Not here. It's on the North side, North Fayette Township."

"Oh," Tommy said, blinking.

Olivia smiled and reached out to gently open one of the brochures in his hand, and pointed to the address that was printed on the inside. "See?"

"Yeah," Tommy said, with a little self-deprecating laugh. "Might help if I opened it up and read that."

"No big deal," Olivia replied. She shifted the files and her weight to one hip. "So, Tommy," she began, and the tone of her voice made him look at her finally. "You were in the parking lot last night." She phrased it as a statement, not a question.

_Ah, fuck. Time to do some 'splaining. _"Yeah," he said, scrubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I was. Look, about that – I ain't stalkin' you or anything."

"I know," Olivia said. "I assume you have a reason, and I'd like to hear it." She was talking in her shrink-voice, he noticed. He wondered if she knew she was doing that.

"Listen," he began. "I might be way out of line here because we don't know each other that well. But, that Kenny guy – your patient. He gives me the fucking creeps. And I think he should be giving you the creeps too."

Olivia tilted her head, a little smile playing at the corners of her pouty lips. Tommy looked away again. "The creeps?" she repeated. "Really? Why?"

"I don't like the way he looks at you," Tommy said bluntly. "And I have a pretty good people radar. And he's bad news, Liv. Really bad news."

"He's a little…eccentric," Olivia admitted. "But he's harmless. He's going through a hard time."

"How so?" Tommy asked critically. "Because from where I stand, the only hard time he's having is the one he gets in his pants whenever he looks at you." _Probably should not have gone there._

Olivia's mouth fell open and she definitively turned red. Tommy winced inwardly. _Definitely should not have gone there. Hoo boy._

"That was _totally_ out of line," she said, frowning. "First of all, it's none of your business what he's going through – it's called doctor-patient confidentiality. Second of all, your last comment was – was –" She struggled, her cheeks and neck growing redder. "Just totally inappropriate!"

"Listen, I'm sorry if I was out of line for anything I said," Tommy said quickly. "I didn't mean to piss you off. But I stand by what I said. You need to watch out for him."

She frowned again, her face still red. "I'll be fine, Tommy. But instead of worrying about someone else, why don't you focus on yourself."

He held up his hands in a sign of surrender. "I will. But I'm just asking you to be cautious."

"Thanks for your concern," Olivia said rigidly, in a chilly way that made Tommy almost regret broaching the subject. Almost. "I'll be sure to do that." She cleared her throat. "I should probably get going with these." She turned to leave, then stopped and glanced back at him. "I'm proud of your decision to give school a try," she said, her voice softer. "Good luck with that and let me know if I can help in any way."

He hated himself for the strange and sudden feeling of hope stirring in his gut at her words and her tone of voice. "Thanks. I will." She nodded and turned to leave again. For some completely inexplicable reason, Tommy reached out and tagged her elbow lightly. Surprised, she stopped and looked at him again.

"I am really sorry for pissing you off," he said, further hating himself for the way his voice had gotten all raspy and quiet. He looked at her earnestly. "I just – I got a bad feeling and I want you to be okay. That's all." He held up a hand when Olivia tilted her head and opened her mouth to interject. "Just keep your eyes open, okay? And if you ever need help or whatever, I'm – I'm here." He felt horribly awkward and just _weird _saying that, so he followed up with a lame joke. "Besides, if anything happened to you, I'm fucked. Who else is there to help me with all this bullshit?"

Olivia took a deep breath, and then gave him that _smile_ again. This time, he didn't look away and let himself be lost in the warmth of it. _God, but she's pretty._

"Thanks, Tommy," she said softly. "No hard feelings on the comments. I do appreciate your concern, and I give you my solemn promise to keep my eyes open." She reached out and patted his arm, and the gesture went straight to his heart. It, like her smile, was so sweet and warm and kind. He could hardly comprehend it; just two little taps – _pat, pat_ – and he felt like a king. He blinked at her in awe.

"Have a good night," she added.

"Goodnight," he mumbled back, watching as she turned away and walked off.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Hi loves. Hope you're all liking this story. If you are, leave me a review and let me know. Also - please excuse any typos you might see. xoxo**

**Chapter 16**

"...and I just feel like, I dunno - like I'm just meant to be with someone else. You know? You know how that goes, Liv? Like, now, months later when I've been alone and can get some perspective I just feel, like...I dunno. Like that was why my marriage failed. Because on a deeper level that I couldn't even comprehend I knew that I was supposed to be with someone else. You know?"

Olivia stifled a yawn by clenching her jaw and glanced down at her notes. "So, Kenny, if I'm hearing you correctly, what you're saying is that you feel like you subconsciously sabotaged your marriage and forced your wife to cheat on you, because you felt that on some other level you knew that she wasn't the woman you were supposed to be with. Is that right?"

Kenny beamed at her across the coffee table from his place on the sofa. "You got it, Liv. That's exactly what I'm saying."

It was nights like these that made Olivia second-guess her choice in career path.

For the last forty-five minutes, Kenny had been waxing philosophical on the dissolution of his marriage. Olivia _knew_ it was super-duper wrong of her - but she had thought _No. Your marriage failed because you are an annoying, domineering control freak. That's why. _on several occasions. Not her proudest moment - but she couldn't help it. However annoying and arrogant he might be, Olivia still wasn't getting the creepy vibe that Tommy had insisted on the night before. She just wasn't seeing it, and _she_ had great people radar. It was sort of why and how she'd found herself in this field in the first place.

_Am I just being naive?_ she wondered. She remembered Tommy's unbelievably rude and inappropriate comment having to do with Kenny checking her out. _Something about him having a hard time in his pants. _Because of that comment alone, she had tried to pay special attention to Kenny's interactions with her. But so far, all he'd done was smile warmly at her when he'd come in to the session, flop down on the couch, and start talking. He had looked at her face, sure, because generally that's what people did when they conversed. But she hadn't noticed his eyes straying anywhere they shouldn't be, so she wasn't really sure that Tommy knew what he was talking about. He just sounded like a typical jealous dude.

That thought brought her up short; why would he need to be jealous? She was only his therapist - sort of. And really, it was more of a temporary working situation. When she located a proper therapist for him, they'd go their separate ways. They might see each other at the gym occasionally, but that would be about it. And besides, she thought, her face burning in shame, it wasn't like he was the one having illicit thoughts and fantasies about her the way she was about him. But perhaps he was jealous that she was splitting her time among more patients than just him. Granted, he knew that she worked with his father. But maybe he didn't like the fact that she had other patients to worry about. Maybe he wanted all of her attention, because he needed the most help. And she had to admit, Tommy and his very legitimate issues were by far more worthy of her attention and care than the philosophical wanderings of an early-forties divorcee who gave himself way more credit for being a stellar husband than was due. Olivia didn't even need to speak to his ex-wife to see that.

_You can be such a vicious cunt sometimes,_ she chastised herself. _Your personal opinion is irrelevant. Your purpose is to help. Now stop being so judgmental and listen to the man._

"I just feel like, now more than ever, I'm supposed to find that soul mate," Kenny went on, meeting her eyes earnestly. "I know she's out there. In fact, I think I've met her."

This was interesting. "Oh, really?" Olivia asked, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Where did you meet this woman? Have you spoken? Does she know you're interested, or maybe even share your interest?"

Kenny smiled shyly. "Well, I've known her for a few months now. We've worked together on a project in the past, and now we find ourselves working together again. I'm pretty sure she knows I'm interested, but I'm not totally sure. She's really great. She's beautiful and smart, really dedicated to her career." His eyes turned soft as he spoke, and Olivia couldn't help but think he must really have it bad for this woman, whoever she was. "I really think she's _the one_."

"Whoa," Olivia joked lightly, causing Kenny's smile to widen. "This sounds serious. Do I hear wedding bells?" She'd meant it lightly, but Kenny shrugged modestly.

"You never know," he said simply, his eyes boring into hers and crinkling at the corners. "I think what I need to do is take the first step, make the first move, tell her how I feel. Who knows, she might be in love with me, but just not sure how _I _feel about her. Maybe she's too scared to say something."

"That could be," Olivia said agreeably with a nod. "I would just caution you to make sure you're sure. Maybe give it some more time, feel her out a little more. I would hate for you to go out on a limb, find out that you got your wires crossed and wind up broken-hearted again. You're a good man, Kenny. You don't deserve that sort of pain. No one does."

"I don't think I need to worry about that," Kenny said gently. "I think that if anything, I need to give _her_ time to show her that I am that good man, that I can make her happy. That all she needs to do is let go...and let me love her."

_Puke in my mouth_. "Just be careful," was Olivia's reply. She glanced at her watch. "Kenny, it looks like time's up. My next appointment is in a few minutes. Let's go ahead and schedule another appointment, yeah?"

Kenny gave her a date that worked for him, a week from now, and she penciled it in. She walked him to the door, and he turned to look at her. His eyes went all gentle-looking again, soft and liquid, and he smiled at her.

"Thanks for everything, Liv," he said quietly, his hand on the door. "It really means a lot to me that you're here for me."

Olivia suddenly felt guilty for her mean thoughts. "Of course," she said lightly. "That's my job. I just want to see you happy and healthy."

"You do?" he asked, his voice low.

Olivia blinked. "Of course," she said slowly. "That's - that's my job."

"And I appreciate it," Kenny said in that same tone. "It's nice to know someone so caring." He held her gaze for a beat longer, then turned. "I better get going. See you in a week."

"All righty," Olivia said lamely. _Did I just say "all righty"?_

She kept the door to her office open after he left, anticipating Paddy. She thought about Kenny's departure and wondered now if maybe Tommy did know what he was talking about. Kenny had definitely acted a little strangely at the end, looking a little too long, taking her words a little too personally, his tone a little too familiar and suggestive.

_Gonna have to watch that, _she thought. _Never good for the patient to develop a crush on the therapist. _While it typically tended to happen with female patients and male therapists, the development of the attraction through the "hero syndrome", it wasn't uncommon for it to happen in reverse. If things seemed to continue the way they had at the end, she would have no choice but to let him know it wasn't cool.

_Wonder who the lucky lady is,_ she thought. Apparently, she didn't appear to be _too_ special if Kenny had taken the time to try to charm Olivia with his words before leaving. She shook her head. He wasn't a bad-looking man, she reasoned, with big, wide dark eyes, and nice brown hair that was a little thin but mostly in tact. His face was kind, and youthful though it was lined. He was slender, not too much taller than her, and dressed somewhat plainly. A nice-looking man, she thought, thinking again of Tommy's words, but certainly not her type, even if he wasn't a patient of hers.

When she thought about what her type actually was, and immediately thought of a muscular body littered with tattoos, fierce, stormy pewter eyes, and full lips, her body ignited with heat and she blushed deeply, fanning herself a little. Patient, quasi-patient or whatever or no, Tommy Conlon definitely fit the bill. And, she was deeply ashamed to admit to herself, she'd repeated her exercise from the other night, imagining he'd been with her, in her, until she'd climaxed several times. Seeing him at the student center last night on a whim hadn't helped. He was freshly showered, his hair still a little damp, and he'd been wearing a T-shirt with sleeves that clung to his very nicely developed biceps, and his casual track pants had hung off his muscular, rounded ass in a spectacular way. She hoped that he hadn't noticed how flushed she was. Her inappropriate thoughts aside, she had been extremely surprised and pleased to see him collecting brochures for classes. He wanted more from life, she knew, and she was exceedingly proud of him for taking the first steps toward getting it. She felt bad for losing her temper a little with him after he'd been blunt about his opinion regarding Kenny's supposed interest in her, and had tried to leave on a good note. The look he'd given her when she'd patted his arm as she was leaving had made her heart race. It definitely wasn't just a look of respect between two people working together. It hadn't been completely unlike the way Kenny had looked at her tonight.

But for some reason, when Tommy Conlon looked at her that way, it didn't disgust her. No, it made her go home and coax her own body to climax - several times - and wish that he was physically there with her. She still felt guilty, but what made her feel worse was that she wasn't at all sure she could stop it.

_You're worse than a horny teenage boy with a Victoria's Secret catalog_, she chastised herself. In her defense, it had been a while since she'd had any sort of sex. She'd sort of given up on the dating thing when she'd started her doctorate program, and the last date she'd been on had been something like a year, year-and-a-half ago, maybe. She didn't particularly miss it, because she was so busy she didn't really have the time or inclination to go out to places and meet people. Either she was busy with school, work, or her dissertation, or she wanted to spend the little bit of free time she did have to herself, at home with Achilles, watching a movie with a nice glass of Spanish wine. Besides, the idea of dating turned her stomach - all the getting-to-know-you bullshit, the need to be interesting and attractive, the dance around having sex or not having sex. It was all more than she had the patience for.

But somehow, the idea of those things when applied to someone she was actually attracted to didn't seem so awful.

"Hey, Dollface. How are ya today?"

The gruff voice made her jump, and Olivia turned quickly to see the old man standing in the doorway, holding onto his cap, wearing a short-sleeved polo and neatly pressed slacks. _Shit._ She had totally forgotten his coffee.

"Hey, Paddy," she said, quickly moving for the cupboard above the counter. "Sorry. I was - I was spacing out. Let me get your coffee."

"No, no," he said quickly, waving a hand. "Don't trouble yourself. I'm glad you didn't. I have another date tonight, after this." He smiled proudly, a little shy, and Olivia turned to look at him, a big smile on her face.

"Is that right?" she exclaimed, moving toward the seating area and waving him toward. "So things are going pretty well with Cathy?"

"Pretty well," Paddy echoed with a rare wide smile, and for a moment Olivia caught her breath. It was Tommy's smile, in an older and more lined face. "She's a real sweet lady. I'm a lucky guy."

"That's so great," Olivia said sincerely. Secretly, she felt that a relationship with a woman would do wonders for Paddy, and help ease some of that horrible loneliness he experienced, and it would appear that her assessment had been correct. "How's everything else? With the boys, and the family."

"Mostly good," Paddy said with a bob of the head. "The girls are great. Tess is great. Brendan is pretty good. Tommy - I'm a little worried about him though. He mighta told you he lost that fight the other night."

"I heard something about that," Olivia said evenly.

"Well. It was awful to watch. As a father, you know. Being able to relate to what he was going through, but not be able to do nothin' about it. He was doin' so well, too. Hadn't lost his touch. In fact he seemed even sharper, more focused than before. I thought he had it. And then, a spotlight hit him right in the face, and it was just over. His face just went blank, and he just froze up. I bet a lotta people probably thought he choked or somethin'. But any military guy who's been to war knows that look. You can just see it, you can feel it. You know when another Marine, a soldier, whatever, has gone back to that place. You can't miss it."

"I can imagine that," Olivia said with a nod. She knew that Paddy probably had no idea the level of detail she knew about that night, straight from Tommy's mouth, and she wasn't about to say so. It was moments like these that she was relieved that she wasn't officially Tommy's therapist, and she appreciated the conflict of interest rules that were in place. Otherwise, this would probably be exceedingly difficult to manage. As it was, she'd been reaching out to her contacts to find a suitable therapist for Tommy. She had just about decided on one - a woman who had in fact been Olivia's mentor while she was getting her Masters. Her name was Carol, and she was in her late fifties. She was spunky, and outgoing, and had proven time and time again to be highly effective with her clients. Olivia had been tempted to reach out to a therapist specializing in dealing with combat vets, but Tommy seemed to respond well to women, and his issues went far beyond the war. She felt instinctively that Tommy could achieve great things with Carol.

"Anyway, Doc, I wanted to ask you something." Olivia glanced up from her notes, tuning back in and cursing herself for letting her mind wander a little. "I don't know if he mentioned it, but Tommy has another fight on Tuesday." Olivia nodded; Tommy hadn't mentioned this, but maybe it had come about after his session with her on Monday. "His brother and I aren't real happy about it, but of course, we're gonna be there. For one, I want to support my son. For two, I want to be there in case something happens. And for three, I don't trust that slimy bastard of a manager he has."

"Understandable," Olivia said with a nod. "He may not directly tell you this but I think it means a lot to Tommy to have you guys there supporting him. He knows that he's not in this alone."

"Well, I'm hoping you can be there to support him, too," Paddy said.

Olivia blinked in surprise. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"What I mean is, I'm scared to death that he's going to have another episode, another PTSD thing," Paddy said. "And based on last time, me, his brother and his manager all managed to just piss him off more. Bet he didn't mention this, but in the dressing room after the fight he just blew up on us. Turned over the table, kicked us all out. I thought he was gonna put his fist through the wall. But it affected him real bad, and it made him lash out. That scared me almost as bad as watching him freeze up."

Olivia frowned. She had not heard this part. "Go on."

"So, he's bound and determined to do this damn fight. Another stupid rule that his 'manager' has set up in order to get him on the Sparta roster. Me and his big brother, we been tryin' to tell him Colt is no good, he's only in it for the money and for himself, and he really don't give a shit about his fighters." Paddy seemed to forget himself as his emotional tirade barreled on, and he clapped a hand to his mouth. "Sorry, Doc."

"It's okay," Olivia said with a little smile. "I've heard that word before."

"Well. It ain't too nice to say it in front of a lady. Anyway, I think it would be nice for you to be there in case this happens again. None of us know what to do, you know, and I think Tommy really likes you and I think you've really been helpin' him. Even in this short amount of time, I feel like I can see some changes in him. Do you know he was at the community college last night, gettin' brochures for the automotive program?" Paddy beamed proudly, and Olivia realized that Tommy must have mentioned it to him, but apparently had left out the part where they had run into each other. "I can see the changes, they're little ones right now for sure, but I see 'em and I'm damn proud of him." He cleared his throat. "I just wish he'd let me celebrate with him a little more, but he seems to only want to tell me what he's doin' but not want to really talk about it with me. Anyway. I just think it would be good for you to be at the fight for him on Tuesday in case he needs help. I think you're the only one who could get through to him."

"I can be there," Olivia said. "I'll be there. I'm not really one for fights, but, I am definitely one to be there for help."

"Well, don't worry about watching the fight. He's got a dressing room you can hang out in."

"I hope that won't be too invasive," Olivia said with a thoughtful frown. "Maybe we should ask him about that first."

Paddy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Ah, Doc," he said. "I was kinda hopin' that we could just keep this between us. I mean, Brendan will know, of course, but - well, what I'm drivin' at is that I don't think that Tommy should know. He's so damn pigheaded and stubborn that even though he likes you a whole lot he'll dig in his heels and say 'hell, no' because he thinks that he don't really need much help."

Olivia knew that Tommy didn't think he didn't need any help, but she could agree with Paddy's assessment of his younger son' pigheadedness and stubbornness. Five minutes with Tommy had shown her that.

"Well," she said slowly. "I have to say I don't really condone the secrecy, but on the same token I can sort of understand what you're saying about Tommy and I tend to agree that even if he really needed my help, if he knew ahead of time that you were planning on having me there, he would more than likely put the kabosh on it." She nibbled her lip, meeting Paddy's eyes as he nodded in agreement with her words. She really did hate the idea of potentially being exactly what Tommy had accused her of being during their first meeting - secretly plotting "against" him with his family. Of course, it was far from against him, and really was all _for_ him, but she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't see it that way and would treat it as a betrayal.

On the other hand, the thought of him freezing up again, experiencing a PTSD episode essentially alone - and without anyone around who was professionally trained to handle that sort of thing, he would be _alone_ even in a crowded room - made her sick to her stomach. She knew what he would need, what he would need to hear, how to speak to him and what to say in the event that that happened, where Paddy and Brendan just simply did not, no matter how good their intentions were.

Between the two evils - the lesser one was having an angry Tommy Conlon on her hands. _I mean. What has he been this whole time, anyway?_

"Okay," she told Paddy finally. "I'll be there. And I won't say anything to him. Hopefully he won't need me - but if he does, I'll be there."

"Well, you won't be out watching the fight in person," Paddy said slowly. "Or at least, not where he can see you. Maybe we can work it so you can watch from a distance, just to keep an eye on him. If everything looks okay, then you could leave and he never has to know you were there. And if things go bad, well, you're right there and you can help him out, and we'll deal with the consequences later." The last part of Paddy's statement let Olivia know that Paddy, too, understood that Tommy was going to react unfavorably if he saw Olivia there, but that he had also weighed the pros and cons and knew that it was better to have someone trained present.

He gave Olivia a slightly sad smile. "I know that it seems a little underhanded maybe, to go behind his back, but -" He broke off and gave a little defeated shrug, one that said he was used to defeat, that went straight to Olivia's heart. "I've spent years without my son, and some days even now I'm not sure he wants me around. But even if he don't want to talk to me no more, at least I know he's well taken care of and healthy. You know?"

"You're a good man, Paddy," Olivia said softly, and realized that this was the second patient she'd said that to tonight. The difference was, she wholeheartedly and genuinely meant it with Paddy. "And I think that Tommy knows that. I think he understands that you love him, and that you have his best interests at heart. Deep down, he knows this."

"Thanks." Paddy bobbed his head humbly. "I've got a lot to atone for with those boys. I would give my last breath for them, and the girls and Tess. I would do it in a heartbeat. And if I have to lose my son all over again, just to make sure he's okay..." Paddy cleared his throat and blinked several times, before glancing up at her and giving her a watery smile. "You see? You've done it again."

Olivia felt her own throat tighten with emotion as she smiled back and nudged the box of tissues closer to him. "It's okay, Paddy. You are a good man. I know that's hard for you to believe. But I guess maybe I can see you in a different, separate way that you see yourself, and I know how much you love your boys and your family. I know what you'd do for them, what you'd sacrifice for them."

"Just don't want it to be too late," Paddy said, blowing his nose. "I would walk away from them if it was the best thing. It would kill me, but I'd do it. But I don't wanna have to do that. I want to show them I'm worth keepin' around. That I ain't the man I was when they were kids. That monster's dead."

"You killed him," Olivia said encouragingly. "You killed him, because you didn't want him to exist anymore. What do we talk about in here? Consistency. You keep staying consistent with them, and they won't have any choice but to see you for the man you _are."_

Paddy smiled again and used a fresh tissue to wipe his nose. He glanced at his watch. "Well, we'd better stop here," he said, his voice raspy. "I've got my date in ten minutes and I'd hate to show up with my mascara running." He exaggeratedly fluttered his eyelashes and Olivia laughed.

"Sure," she said, rising from her seat. "I'm sorry we didn't get to spend as much time talking about you tonight. It seems we discussed your son mostly."

"My sons are everything to me," Paddy said quietly. "So, I'm affected by what they do and don't do."

"I understand," Olivia said, patting his shoulder as she escorted him to the door. "Same time next week?"

"Same bat time, same bat channel," Paddy joked.

Olivia smiled at him and opened the door. "Have fun on your date with Cathy. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I'm just an old man," Paddy said with a wink. "I'm not capable of any of the hijinks you might be thinking about." He popped his hat on his head with a flourish and Olivia laughed again.

"Sure, Paddy," she teased. "Have a good time."

"I will. Thank you." He waggled a finger at her, his face stern. "Don't you stay here working late. It's not safe. You get on home soon, you hear?"

"Yes, I hear you," Olivia said. "Thanks."

When Paddy left, Olivia returned to her desk to collect her things. She sighed. She had Tommy on Friday, and she was going to be seeing him on Tuesday for sure. She hoped only from a distance, as Paddy had suggested. But if things went sour, she'd be seeing him up close and personal, and she could already imagine just how things would play out. Imagining his anger made her cringe.

_It's for the best,_ she thought, packing her bag up and heading for the door, pulling out her keys. _I just hope he doesn't end up hating anyone. _


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Tommy walked down the street toward Colt's, enjoying the cool breeze of the early morning. For mid-August in Pittsburgh, it was surprisingly mild. It would heat up as the day went on, obviously, but for now he enjoyed the relief from the heat.

He pushed through the front doors, and saw the crowd of the usuals who got there at about the same time he did. He'd been up since five, having put in a five-mile run, and then returned home to shower, go back to bed for an hour, eat, and come here. It always struck him as dumb to shower _before _coming to the gym, but he couldn't stand to walk around sweaty. He normally took two showers a day, but due to how fast he'd learned to shower in the military, two showers a day probably equaled the average person's one shower.

Anyway.

He went to the water fountain to fill up his bottle, flicking his head at Fenroy who waved at him from the ring, looking ready and energized for the day. Today would be the same as all the others – footwork drills with Fen for an hour. Then weights. Weights for probably an hour-and-a-half, two hours. Bag work for an hour, and then finally sparring which would last at least three hours. There'd be some water and stretching breaks in there, and a lunch break. It was The Routine, and Tommy felt it changing his body every day. He'd always been strong, and toned, and fast, and skilled, but now he was even more so. He didn't want to get too philosophical or analytical or whatever, but if he was going to venture a guess, he'd say that a lot of it was mental. He was in a completely different mental state now than he ever had been before, especially the last time he'd put in work at this particular gym. He'd been carrying around so much _shit_. And now, he was still carrying some of it around, but a whole lot of it was gone. And the rest, he felt, was starting to vanish.

Maybe. Whatever.

He replaced the cap on his bottle and turned, glancing around. It was Thursday morning; Liv should be here by now, but he didn't see her anywhere. Maybe she was running late or something. He had given up trying to talk himself out of the way he felt like he looked forward to seeing her at the gym. Well, anywhere, really. But out of her normal work element he felt like they were sort of on the same level. Like they didn't have to be therapist-patient. Like they could be friends or something.

_If she knew how you think about her…and what you do _when _you think about her…she might not want to be so friendly._

Aw, fuck. Another thing Tommy had given up was trying to act like fantasizing about Olivia didn't mean anything. He was attracted to her, plain and simple, and all he could do now was just feel a little guilty about having done so when he saw her. He wasn't sure why he felt so guilty, other than the fact that Liv was pretty nice and sweet and really wanted to help him. She deserved to be treated with respect, looked at that way, thought about that way. She didn't deserve to be exploited in his mind when he thought of that delicious round ass of hers, and that great rack, and the way her waist curved in so nicely, and how her hips gave her that perfect hour-glass shape.

He glanced down, feeling his dick rousing with interest in his track pants and he sighed. _Fucking fuck me._ He ducked into the bathroom, which fortunately was only two steps away, to take care of the problem before it got out of control. Smelling a funky-ass men's bathroom tended to put the damper on any feelings of horniness. While in there, he realized that he _should_ probably take a piss before getting started; all that water, and then the coffee he'd had with his breakfast had gone straight through him and it was hard to concentrate on anything when his bladder was being jounced around and begging for relief. And he hated to stop once he got going.

When he was finished, he washed his hands thoroughly at the sink and then dried them. He rubbed some antibacterial hand sanitizer over his hands for good measure, grabbed his bottle again, and strode out of the bathroom.

And immediately collided with a small figure coming out of the storage room.

"Shit!"

The gym echoed with metallic bangs and clangs as various items like a mop, a rolling bucket, and a metal container of cleaning items hit the floor, and the little figure he collided with – none other than Olivia, of course; who else would need to be in the storage room? –let out a heavy, feminine grunt as she bounced off of his chest. Automatically he reached out and grabbed whatever he could to steady her and prevent her from toppling over onto her ass since she'd also just successfully managed trip on the sloshing rolling bucket of mop water. His hands closed around a forearm and her waist and he pulled her forward before she could land on top of the bucket, knock it over, soak herself and have a _real_ bad day.

The force of the momentum he created caused Liv to careen back into him, making him stumble backward while still holding onto her. Finally he steadied them both, feeling slightly annoyed in knowing that they must have just recreated some Three Stooges scene for everyone to see, since the gym had just gone dead silent and everyone was looking at them.

Olivia was blushing furiously as she looked up into his face, and Tommy realized he was still holding onto her, and that her body felt goddamn amazing pressed against his. Warm, soft, supple. And he felt the soft curve of her breasts against his chest, and thinking of that made his efforts in the bathroom appear to be completely in vain. Quickly, reluctantly, he released her.

She placed a hand on her forehead, glancing behind her at the mess that could have been way worse. "I'm sorry, Tommy," she said. "I am such a klutz this morning. I don't know what my problem is – I'm just out of it today."

Tommy leaned down to gather up the supplies that had gone flying. "No problem. Pretty sure it was my fault anyway. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Thanks," she said with a little self-deprecating smile as he handed her the bucket of her supplies and then picked up her mop from the floor. "But I'm pretty sure that was all me." She nodded toward the ring, where Fenroy was boring holes into him and looking repeatedly at his watch. "Looks like you've got someone waiting on you."

"Yeah," Tommy sighed. "Better get going. Sorry about – all that."

"No," Olivia called over her shoulder, placing her bucket by the windows. "It was my fault."

Tommy smirked and lifted his hand in a little wave, leaving her to her tasks, then headed toward the ring. He shucked his sweatshirt with the cutoff sleeves and glanced in annoyance at the little shit-eating grin on Fen's face. "What the hell are you smiling about? Let's get to work."

"Oh, _now_ he wants to get to work," Fen teased. Fen's dark brown eyes moved to the back of the gym, where Olivia had started mopping. "It's okay, Tommy. I understand."

Tommy followed Fenroy's gaze, watching Olivia push the mop around a little, then turned back to Fen. "Shut up. Come on, let's work."

For the next half an hour, Fenroy took him through some complicated footwork drills and Tommy worked up a healthy sweat. Fenroy kept trying to test and trick him, mixing in old drills with the new ones, just to see if Tommy could keep up. He could, and he made a silent promise to himself that he was going to make Fen pay for it all when they got into the ring in the afternoon.

After the first half an hour, Fen made him take a water break and stretch out his tight quadriceps before continuing the second half of the drills. Then he got some more water and some more stretches, feeling his back muscles bunching up tight. After they break, they moved onto weights. Tommy had a love/hate relationship with weights. He enjoyed increasing his strength and building and toning his muscles of course, but the actual exercise of it was excruciating sometimes, not to mention tedious, what with all the different exercises and the meticulous sets and reps, and Fen keeping careful track of how quickly or slowly he was progressing with a particular muscle group, how he was increasing his weights, and so on.

Tommy was going through some tricep push-backs, using the weight bench for leverage, when he glanced up as he let out a controlled, heavy stream of breath. His eyes wandered across the gym to find Olivia now climbing a ladder to start washing the windows. She moved in a slightly timid way that made him remember that she had told him she had a problem with heights. But once she was at the top of the ladder and had gained her balance, she pressed up onto the balls of her feet and leaned over to begin scrubbing at the top of the window. His eyes followed the line of her body from heel to head and he sucked in his breath. The muscles of her calves flexed as she leaned up on her toes, and the cutoff shorts she was in revealed the backs of her shapely, smooth thighs, lightly toned and tanned with her skin's natural hue. Her scrumptious ass was tilted up and as about a dozen scenarios featuring her in this position minus a whole bunch of clothes flashed through his head, Tommy dropped his weight. His eyes slid higher, taking in the slight flash of her midriff, exposed as her arm reached up and out, pulling the T-shirt that was knotted at her waist upward up with it. He wanted to look away, feeling that little spark in his groin that told him he should go find something to mate with start to heat up, but he couldn't. He could only stare.

"Conlon."

A heavy hand smacked onto the back of his neck and in an instant, the first stirrings of his arousal disappeared as he shot to his feet. Alertness and panic and a strong sense of "fight or flight" fell over him as he turned toward his assailant with blazing eyes.

Fenroy backed up a couple steps, his hands and eyebrows shooting up. "Hey, man," he said quietly. "Just me. Saw you got a little distracted, came to check on you." He swallowed, a little nervous and wary. "You okay?"

Tommy clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, ruminating on the fact that he'd been pretty ready to rip Fen to shreds with his bare hands a second ago. _Fuck is wrong with me?_ He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Sorry, um. About that." He cleared his throat, feeling like he owed it to Fen to provide something like an explanation. "I was distracted. My mind went somewhere else. I, uh – I don't really like getting caught off guard. So. Anyway. I'm sorry."

Fen bobbed his head. "No hard feelings," he said calmly, then glanced across the room to where Tommy had been staring. He smiled a little. "Can't say I blame you for gettin' distracted," he added teasingly with a wink.

Tommy knew he'd been caught and huffed out a short laugh. "Yeah, well." He almost slipped up and said, "It's extra fucked up because she's my therapist" but caught himself in time; somehow, he didn't think he wanted anyone to know that. And furthermore, he wasn't sure that anyone else _could_ know that. So he said instead, "Don't see many girls around this place."

"Not pretty ones like that, no," Fen said agreeably, his smile growing wider now that he could see Tommy had loosened up some. "You two been datin' for a while?"

"Huh?" Tommy tilted his head. "We're not dating at all."

Fen looked surprised. "Oh. Sorry. I just assumed, you know, I see you guys talking around here and stuff and starin' at each other all the time. Plus you told all the guys to back off and stuff."

_Staring at _each other_?_ Tommy thought, interested. "Nah, man. We're just – cool. We're not dating. And I told the guys to back off because they kept talkin' shit to her, like racist shit because she's –" He broke off, not sure exactly what she was and not wanting to be one of those ignorant assholes who assumed that every person of Latin origin in the world was automatically Mexican. "– Hispanic," he finished.

"Oh," Fen replied with a blink. "Okay. My bad." He chuckled. "I'm sure plenty of guys around here will be happy to hear that."

Jealousy suddenly rose in Tommy along with his blood pressure. "What's that mean?"

Fen laughed out loud. "C'mon, man, you think you're the only guy in here that thinks she's cute? I can name about a dozen guys without even trying that hard around here who want to get next to her. Including your boy Mad Dog."

"That piece of shit ain't my boy," Tommy shot back, _really_ not liking the fact that there were other guys in this place chomping at the bit to get with Olivia. "And – no, she and I aren't dating, but she's off limits. Tell whoever you gotta tell or I can do it myself." He leaned over to retrieve his weight and transferred it to work his other arm.

"Off limits, huh?" Fenroy's eyes crinkled merrily at the corners as though this was just all too wonderful for him. "And why is that, Conlon?"

"Look, man, _you_ trying to get with her or something?" Tommy demanded, straightening and staring him down. "I'm pretty sure Sydney would not appreciate that."

"Aw, Syd knows she's my number one and only lady," Fen said, waving Tommy off. "It's not that at all, a'right, before you try to fuckin' punch me in the dick or something – which I can tell you Sydney will _definitely_ not appreciate. I'm just tryin' to get you to admit that _you_ want her, and you don't want anybody else to have her."

"It's not even like that," Tommy muttered, growing more and more annoyed by the second. "I don't like any of these fucking cock-bags around here and she's too good for them. So – off limits to anyone who asks. And if _anyone_ has a fuckin' problem with it, tell 'em to come talk to me directly." He glowered at Fen, who was nodding with his lips folded inward as though he were really trying hard not to laugh. "Can we fucking work now, or what?"

"Sure," Fen said easily, and moved around to Tommy's other side to spot. "One more thing though. You should know that Grimes is saying he's gonna do everything in his power to get in that girl's panties." He shrugged when Tommy turned to stare at him over his shoulder. "And you know how he is with women. It don't take much before he's plowing them down."

"Liv isn't gonna fall for his shit," Tommy muttered. "She's too smart for that."

"Hey, you know her better than me," Fen said, lifting his hands in the air again. "I'm just saying – I've seen Grimes pull pussy that I _never, ever_ thought would go for him in a million years. He has the touch."

"Fuck that," Tommy growled, pressing the weight back. "It ain't happening."

Fenroy chuckled softly under his breath, counting out Tommy's reps. Finally, he said, "I think you want that girl. It's okay, bro, you can tell me."

"Fen, shut up."

A little while later, after Tommy had finished the first hour of his weights, he took another water and stretch break, pouring down with sweat. He yanked his shirt over his head and used it to mop the sweat off his face, then glanced over in Olivia's direction again. She had just finished putting away her equipment and that tall-ass ladder that he couldn't believe she'd successfully wrestled back into the storage closet and was heading across the gym toward the door. She caught his eye and gave him a little wave, which he answered a flick of his head.

And then his view of her was suddenly obscured by a tall, mohawked douchebag who stepped right in her path.

Tommy's invisible hackles rose on his back again as he watched Mad Dog Grimes try to work his charm on Olivia. He had half a mind to go over there and say something to him, intervene, go over and talk to her to get her out of there. _Let him know to back the fuck off!_ He watched as Olivia stepped around him, and he almost laughed out loud at the look on her face – she looked completely irritated. He couldn't hear what was being said since they were too far out of earshot, but Mad Dog's mouth kept moving as he most likely kept trying to plead his case. Olivia lifted a hand, almost dismissively, and finally breezed out the door. Mad Dog stared after her, with a completely pissed off look on his face, and then he turned and sent his fist hard into a nearby punching bag. He glanced up, catching Tommy's eye, and Tommy couldn't hold back a smirk. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly shook his head from side to side, mouthing _No _and Mad Dog looked even more pissed off before storming into the men's room. Tommy laughed to himself, and went through the rest of his workout in a much better mood. If he was being honest with himself – something he realized more and more that he didn't particularly care for – it had very little to do with rubbing it in Mad Dog's face that Olivia didn't want him, and a whole lot to do with the _fact_ that Olivia didn'twant him.

It turned out to be a decent day, after all.

When he got home, he immediately went to take a shower, and while there, couldn't help giving into what was quickly becoming a daily bad habit. He'd been fighting it for most of the day but he let the image of her on that ladder take over his mind, except this time, she wasn't on a ladder. And she wasn't wearing any clothes. She was right in front of him, and she was bent over, her legs spread wide.

"_Ah, fuck_," he hissed under the stream of hot water rushing over him, his fist around his cock gradually moving faster up and down his length in mimicry of the work he was putting in with imaginary-Liv in front of him. And now he sort of knew how she felt. Her body was small and soft and firm at the same time, like she took care of herself but she wasn't a hard-body athlete; she was soft in all the places a woman should be soft. Tommy knew that most women probably assumed he wanted whatever woman he was with to have the "perfect" body with a six pack and ripped arms, but the truth was he liked them soft. He liked them slender, and he liked them healthy, but he liked the soft curves of a woman's ass, and the little soft pooch just below her belly button. Not out of control, but just a little soft round one. Soft, squeezable thighs and smooth skin. His breath heaved in chest as his body seized up, and his cock reached its maximum hardness before it released, throbbing in his hand as his seed spilled out and washed down the drain, and he wished it was all over Liv's ass instead. He leaned his head against the shower wall, catching his breath and realizing that he was jacking off at least once a day now, if not two or three times, and that it was more than he ever really had in the past. Sometimes he was tempted to go out and find a random chick for the night just so he could have some type of sex other than with his hand, but he knew from personal past experience that he'd regret it as soon as he came, and besides – again with the whole honesty-with-self thing – there was only one woman he wanted to have sex with. Anything less than that – that is, anything not her – just wouldn't be good enough.

He finished his shower, the water still warm even after the jack-off delay, and went to flop onto the couch. It was still relatively early in the evening, just after six, and he knew he should be doing something productive like emailing that guy from the community college, the one who was in charge of the automotive department, but he was content to put it off for now. _After the fight,_ he thought dully, clicking on the TV and wincing as his right hamstring tightened up for a second. _Need to just chill for a while._

He dozed off on the couch shortly after that thought, and woke up to the buzzing of cell phone. He grabbed it and checked the caller ID, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. It was Colt.

"Hello," he said, trying to sound awake.

"Hey, champ! You sleepin'?"

"Just dozed off for a minute," Tommy said.

"I bet you're tired," Colt said. "I heard you put in _work_ today, bro. I'm glad to hear it – you just keep up that hard work through Sparta."

"Assumin' I even get put on the roster," Tommy replied, just before an enormous yawn nearly split his head in two. He _was_ dead fucking tired.

"I'm workin' on that, bro," Colt said with a smile in his voice. "I'm workin' on it. Listen. The reason why I'm calling is because I just saw the final edit of the spot for the gym. And it looks fuckin' great, bro. You look great in it, you sound great, the whole thing is awesome."

"Already?" Tommy was surprised; he would have thought it would have taken a little longer than a couple days to get through.

"Yeah, well, I paid him a little extra to speed things up," Colt said, and Tommy wondered how many people Colt "paid a little extra to" to get things done his way. "And it's gonna be ready to air, probably this weekend. This ad, plus the nice little write-up you got in the paper yesterday – things are lookin' real good for you, Tommy. You just win that fight on Tuesday and you're fucking golden, man. We're goin' to Atlantic City. You get the film and stats and stuff from Fen that I left for you about the guy you're gonna fight?"

"Yeah," Tommy said. "I got them. I'll watch them later."

"No, tonight," Colt urged. "Watch them tonight, learn everything about him – strengths, weaknesses. I want you to study this fuckin' guy, Tommy, so there are no surprises on Tuesday. Dig?"

"Roger," Tommy said tiredly.

"And you should know," Colt added, "J.J. Riley is gonna be there on Tuesday. Wasn't supposed to tell you, but – thought you should know."

"What?" Tommy instantly grew alert, sitting up straight. "What's that, now?"

"He said he wanted to come down and see you in action for himself. He heard about last week's fight, wants to make sure that you really are able to handle fighting. He only told me, and his assistant of course, but that's it – very top secret. He's comin' down from A.C. _just_ to see you fight, Tommy, and then he's takin' a private jet back to A.C. same night. Sneakin' him in the back of the West Track Club, giving him special seating away from the crowd, and that's it. So, you gotta be in top shape, bro, you get me?"

"Yeah, yeah," Tommy said quickly. "Yeah, I got you. No problem." _It might be a problem._

"Good. I just wanted you to know that, bro, even though I wasn't supposed to tell you. I didn't want you to be surprised if you saw him and then think I was keeping things from you."

"No, I appreciate it," Tommy said. "Thanks for tellin' me."

"You won't let me down, right, champ?"

"Hell, no," Tommy said. _I might let you down._ "I won't let you down."

"Good. All right, buddy, get some rest, okay? I'll see you tomorrow."

Tommy hung up and leaned back, his stomach tensing and knotting with anxiety. J.J. Fucking Riley was going to come to the 'burgh _just_ to watch him fight? Unreal. What if he fucked up? What if he choked again? What if he _lost_?

He leaned forward and rest his head in his hands. "Time to get your shit all the way together, Conlon," he muttered.

He only hoped he could – everything was riding on this.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Thanks to all who follow, favorite and review this story. Means a crap ton to me. Nitpicky thing, but I realized that I time-jumped a bit from Chapter 9 because, well, I forgot what date I was on. So I changed the date mentioned in Ch. 9 to suit my needs better. Cuz I can do dat. Right now, we're ending the week of Aug. 12 here. So the fight is Tuesday, Aug. 20, just to give you a point of reference, and sorry for any confusion. I rarely remember what I write. Whoops. Oh - and I know you guys are really needing Liv and Tommy to, um...do something. ME TOO! I want to give it to you guys (HA PUNZ) but bear with me...we got a lil' mo' story to tell first. Stick with me. It will happen. Soon. RRE! xoxo**

**Chapter 18**

Fridays were usually a quasi-rest day for Tommy. Colt wanted him to run a couple less miles than usual, and instead of an hour of footwork drills, it was thirty minutes. Instead of three hours of sparring, it was ninety minutes. And instead of two hours of weights, it was none since he'd done them yesterday – all week, actually – and he'd hit them again tomorrow. He showed up at nine-thirty, and was walking out by eleven-thirty. Easy peasy.

Saturdays were generally beast-mode days, like every other day in the week. Sunday he was supposed to do a short run of about three to four miles tops, stretch, hydrate, and rest. And then Mondays he was usually back at it as per normal, but this coming Monday would probably be a lot like today because he had a fight the next day. Then after the fight, he'd return to regularly scheduled programming and then the following weekend, after Brendan's birthday – it was Sparta time. Maybe. Hopefully.

Truth be told, Tommy felt pretty good about his shot to get on the roster. He'd finally gotten around to reading the write-up about him in the paper, and the "interview" which had been pared down to just a few questions and drastically reworded to make him sound less like an asshole and more like a hero. And Colt must have given the reporter a real nice chunk of change, because the flowery words of praise and sentiment contained in the article about him would be enough to nauseate and annoy anyone. The reporter had really angled on the war hero thing, calling his dishonorable discharge a "heresy" and saying that no matter what any court had to say about him, Tommy Conlon would always be a hero in the eyes of the general public, and would always be respected as a Marine.

Yeah. Whole lot of money, that one got. Tommy had read the interview two more times to make sure that he had really read what he thought he had. He couldn't believe the same guy that wrote it was the same prick that had provoked him into attacking him. But apparently, this under-the-table, you-scratch-my-back-I-scratch-yours type of shit really worked.

Then there was the ad. Colt had seen it and seemed damn excited about it. Tommy planned to go out of his way to not watch it. It was one thing to read a black and white interview that was just words and one older picture of him from the Sparta I press rounds. It was quite another to see himself, his current self, in motion and looking like a fucking tool and speaking his unbelievably lame line. Nah. Wasn't going to happen.

Tommy left the gym to go home and shower and change. Paddy had called him last night to invite him to lunch with him and his new lady friend, Cathy. Tommy hadn't really wanted to go, but he also didn't want Paddy to think that he was avoiding him. Since the fight last Friday, Tommy had spoken to Paddy a total of two times. And he'd talked to Brendan on Tuesday, and that was it. Tommy sighed to himself as he ran a handful of gel quickly through his short hair. That was a wrong he was going to have to right as well. He knew he'd hurt Brendan's feelings, and he knew he needed to unhurt them. He also knew that Brendan hadn't reached out again not because he didn't want to, but because he was trying to give Tommy space. The ball was most definitely in his court now, and Tommy suddenly felt like he couldn't go one more day with things feeling fucked up between them. He decided to give Brendan a call after lunch, before he went to his appointment with Olivia.

Tommy got dressed quickly and headed back out to the truck. Paddy and Cathy had wanted him to meet them at some café place downtown that they liked. Tommy didn't have a preference; he was just hungry. This would be the first official time he would be meeting Cathy although he'd heard quite a bit about her and spoken to her once on the phone, when he'd called over there one night and she'd answered. Paddy had been making dinner for them, she'd said, and was currently busy at the stove but she'd be happy to take a message. When she'd found out who she was talking to, she had made a noise of excitement and then kept him on the phone for ten more minutes.

Tommy had to admit she seemed like a nice lady. Her personality had been pretty cool, outgoing, smart. She had to know at least a little about him, if Paddy had met her at AA meetings, and the fact that he was something of infamy in Pittsburgh. But she hadn't been timid with him on the phone, or nervous or awkward. She'd just been...cool. And when Paddy had finished making dinner, she'd told him so, and asked if he wanted her to hand off the phone to Paddy. He'd said no, didn't want to bother them, he'd catch Paddy later, and enjoy her meal, and he could practically hear the wink in her voice when she assured him that she wasn't going to do anything he wouldn't do.

He'd mulled that one over for a minute. The idea of Paddy getting it on with someone. Just...wow. And then he couldn't help thinking that his own father might be getting more play than Tommy himself – which was precisely none – and _that_ had further thrown his ass for a loop.

Tommy suppressed an involuntary shudder at the thought as he parked his truck and pulled the doors of the café open. For a Friday during the post-lunch rush, it was pretty quiet, so he was able to spot Paddy right away. As he walked toward them, Tommy couldn't help noting the look on his father's face as he looked at his lady companion, and felt a strange burst of jealousy. From what Tommy could recall, Pop had never looked at Mom like that. Then again, he thought bitterly, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a sudden surge of resentment, it was hard to look at someone all lovey-dovey when you were pounding their face in.

He did his best to shake it off before he reached the table. Paddy's gaze flicked toward him, and he lumbered to his feet with a smile. "Son," he said in that warm tone he usually had these days, the one that still caught Tommy completely the fuck off guard. "You look good, boy. Say hello to my lady friend."

Tommy accepted his father's pat on his shoulder, swallowing down another surge of resentment, and turned toward Paddy's companion. She was in her mid-fifties, he guessed, and she had blonde and gray hair styled in soft curls that framed her face and brushed her shoulders. She was petite, and had bright blue eyes and a dainty nose, a delicate mouth. She was pretty, and she had a nice warm smile.

"Tommy," she said, and the familiarity of her voice, like she'd known him forever, touched his heart in a weird way. "Nice to put a face with a voice. Boy, you're a handsome fella, aren't you?"

"Well, ah, thanks," he said awkwardly. He offered his hand, and Cathy looked at it, then back at his face. He felt confused, then surprised, when she used the back of her hand to lightly knock his out of the way, and then stretched up to wrap her arms around his shoulders and gave him a gentle hug. Awkwardly he patted her back, but it felt...nice.

"I'm a hugger, son," she said simply, stepping back with another smile and squeezing his arms before taking her seat. "Sorry if that bothers you."

Normally it did, but for some reason Tommy was anxious to tell her the opposite. "No, no," he said quickly. "It's fine. It's nice to meet you, too."

"So, Paddy tells me you're going to be in a commercial, for that gym you go to," Cathy said conversationally, placing her napkin in her lap. "That's wonderful. When can I see it?"

"I'm told sometime this weekend," Tommy replied. "On the local channels." It felt so fucking weird to be talking about a commercial – that he was in. He knew he wasn't going to get used to that. Ever, really.

"I will certainly keep my eyes peeled," Cathy said, then turned to Paddy and patted his leg. "You've got some famous boys, don't you?"

"I sure do," Paddy said proudly, smiling at Tommy. "And I'm so damn proud of them."

Tommy mustered up a half-smile for his father's benefit but glanced away, feeling horribly awkward under the praise. He just felt horribly awkward in general. Luckily, the waitress showed up to take their orders. Cathy ordered a salad, Pop ordered the grilled salmon and wild rice and green beans, and Tommy ordered grilled teriyaki chicken, a baked potato, and steamed vegetables.

"Very healthy," Cathy said approvingly. "You're so responsible."

"Just habit now, I guess," he said. "I treat myself every once in a while."

"Speaking of treating," Paddy said. "You know your brother's birthday is in a week."

"I know," Tommy replied, taking a swig of ice water.

"He and Tess and the girls are plannin' on comin' down here for the weekend."

"Oh, yeah?" Tommy said. _You would know that if you talked to him, instead of being a stubborn asshole,_ a little voice in his head reminded him.

"Yeah. Apparently Tess got tickets to this comedy thing on Friday night. She got four tickets."

"Four?" Tommy repeated.

"Yeah. One for you and one for me. But then, I didn't want to leave Cathy out here in the cold, and someone has to watch the girls." Paddy shared a smile with Cathy and she squeezed his hand.

Tommy looked at their two hands and said, "You two could go and I could watch the girls."

"No, no," Cathy said with a wave of her hand. "You go. Take a date or something. I think your father and I would have more fun hanging out with the little ones, watching movies and baking cookies and coloring."

"Sure would," Paddy said with a smile. "Plus, you know. It's at a club. Where there'll be drinking. And being that Cathy and I are both…"

"I got it," Tommy said quickly, more for Cathy's benefit than anything else. "Yeah, okay. I'll go."

"What about the fourth ticket?" Cathy asked. "Can you think of any takers of the female persuasion?"

"Nah," Tommy said with a shrug. "Maybe I'll see if Brendan's trainer buddy Frank wants it." The idea of spending an evening with Frank Campana made Tommy's skin crawl, but it wasn't his birthday. It was Bren's, and the fact that Bren wanted him there at all made him feel…nice. _You really gotta call Bren. Today._

The rest of the meal passed smoothly, with a minimum of awkwardness, for which Tommy was grateful. He glanced at his watch, noting in surprise he'd sat chatting with Paddy and Cathy for over two hours. If he was going to call Brendan – and he _had to_ – and still make it to his appointment with Olivia on time, he needed to get going.

Paddy insisted on paying for the check, despite Tommy telling him otherwise. "No, Tom," Paddy said firmly. "I got it."

"Well, thanks," Tommy said, feeling strangely guilty. "I should probably get going here pretty soon. Need to make a couple phone calls and then I'm meeting Liv."

"Who's Liv?" Cathy asked with sudden interest. She winked at Tommy. "She pretty?"

"Sure is," Paddy supplied with a wink of his own. "She's Tommy's –"

"She's a friend, helpin' me with somethin'," Tommy interrupted. For someone reason, he didn't really want Cathy to know that he was in therapy, although she might already know that, or would probably soon find out.

"Maybe she can go with you next weekend," Cathy went on calmly, and Tommy had to laugh. The woman was such a – a _mom_.

"I think Bren would probably like to have his buddy there, rather than some girl that I'm cool with," Tommy said. "But thanks anyway for the suggestion."

He said his goodbyes, accepting an awkward hug from his father and a much less awkward hug from Cathy, who pressed her cheek to his and said that it was so nice to meet him finally. Tommy left the restaurant feeling pretty decent – to his surprise. He hopped into his truck and pulled out his phone, dialing Brendan's number. It was Friday afternoon; he was probably home by now.

The phone picked up on the third ring, and a tiny little girl's voice answered the phone. "Uncle Tommy!"

A rare, sudden grin nearly split Tommy's face in two at the sound of his niece's sweet little voice. "Hey, Daisy," he said warmly. "How ya been, sweet stuff?"

"I been okay," Rosie replied, sounding almost weary. It made him snort with laughter. _So hard being a little a kid. _"I miss you. How's Mrs. Carrots?"

"Mrs. Carrots is okay," Tommy replied, keeping his voice serious. "She said the other day that she misses you. But I heard you're coming for a visit next weekend. Is that right?"

"Yes!" Rosie shouted and Tommy held the phone away from his ear for a second. "We're going to see Grandpop for Daddy's birthday. Are we gonna see you, too?"

"Are you kiddin' me?" Tommy asked, making his voice sound hurt. "You're gonna come to _my_ town and you gotta ask if you're gonna see me?"

"So we _are?"_ Rosie shrieked in excitement. Her voice became muffled like she was shouting to someone in the background. "Emmy! We're gonna see Uncle Tommy this weekend!"

"I wanna talk to Uncle Tommy!" he heard Emily say in the background.

"Daisy," he said. "Put your sister on the phone. Okay? Me and Mrs. Carrots are gonna see you next weekend. All right?"

"Okay!" Rosie exclaimed. "I miss you, Uncle Tommy! And Mrs. Carrots. But I love you more."

"Thanks, bunny," he said warmly, a grin on his face. "Miss and love you, too. Put Em on."

After a second he heard a slightly older voice. "Hello?"

"Hey, you," he said, wondering if she could hear the smile on his face. "How are you, sweetie?"

"Hi, Uncle Tommy!" Emily replied, and he heard her whole voice light up. "I miss you! Are we gonna see you next weekend?"

"Man, you too?" he exclaimed, mock-hurt. "Jeez. What am I, chopped liver?"

"No," Emily giggled. "You're my Uncle Tommy! The best uncle in the world."

The praise warmed his heart; the love his nieces had for him would forever escape his understanding, but there was nothing else in the world that made him feel so valued. His throat lumped up and his eyes stung.

"Listen," he said thickly, trying to clear his throat. "We're gonna have fun next weekend, okay? I miss you and your sister. I love you guys. You be good for your parents, okay?"

"Okay," Emily said. "We love you too, Uncle Tommy. Do you want to talk to Daddy?"

"Yes, please," he said. "Thanks, doll." He heard Emily calling for Brendan and he quickly swiped a hand over his face, feeling dumb but not really caring. A minute later he heard his brother take the phone with a distant "thank you, baby" for his daughter.

"Hey, man," Brendan said warmly. "How are you?"

For a moment Tommy was speechless; how could Brendan sound so happy to hear him when Tommy had been _such_ a dick the last time they'd spoken?

"Hey, bro," he managed. "I'm doin' good. How are you?"

"Real good," Brendan said. "Hey, I heard from Pop your commercial might be airin' this weekend? Man, I can't wait to see it! Pop's really excited about it. The girls all want to really see it, too."

"Brendan, why aren't you pissed at me?" Tommy blurted out, then bit his lip.

"What?" Brendan said, sounding confused. "Why would I be pissed at you?"

"I acted like a dick the last time that we talked," Tommy said. "I just – I know I was way out of line, man. I want to apologize. I just don't know why you're acting so cool right now."

"Tommy, that's forgotten, okay?" Brendan said softly. "You're my baby brother, you're goin' through a hard time, you're workin' your ass off, you're stressed out. I get it. I didn't take it personal, and really, I should be mindin' my own business. You're grown. You're smart, you can make your own decisions. I just won't stop worryin' about you, because you're my little brother."

"No, I mean, I understand where you were comin' from," Tommy said quietly. "I just acted like a defensive asshole for no reason."

"I just want the best for you, Tommy," Brendan said. "But I know that you feel like your manager has things worked out. So I'm gonna be there no matter what, and I'll keep my opinions to myself unless you ask for them, and I'm gonna support you with everything. How's that sound?"

"Sounds good," Tommy said, still feeling bad that Brendan felt like he had to walk on eggshells around him. "Listen, man – you're my brother, and you have a right to your opinions. I mean, I owe it to you to hear them all out. You let me stay in your house when I had nowhere to go." _You gave me a family I wasn't sure I deserved_. Still _not sure I deserve._

"I love you too, Tommy," Brendan said warmly. "And, if I feel like you _need_ to hear it, I will tell you. But not before that. Okay?"

"Got it," Tommy replied, and felt a million times better that they'd talked, and that Brendan was being so awesome. _I'm lucky._

"So you hangin' with your big bro next weekend?" Brendan asked, and the excited tone in his voice made Tommy grin.

"Sure," Tommy replied. "Thirty-three is…wow. Old man."

"Yeah, and you're two years behind me," Brendan shot back. "Thirty-one is right around the corner, little bro."

"The cool thing," Tommy said, "is that while that might be the case, I will forever be two years younger than you, Bren. So eat that."

"Fuck off," Brendan said, his tone warm and full of laughter, and the two brothers cracked up. "So you bringin', like, a date or anything?"

"I thought I'd see if your boy Frank Campana wanted this other ticket," Tommy said. "So…no."

"Nah," Brendan said, surprising Tommy. "He'll meet up with us later that evening, I think. He's not sure yet. Bring a girl, man. Haven't you met anyone yet?"

Tommy smirked. "Sort of," he said, thinking about the one girl he had met that he did like. The one that happened to be helping him deal with his miles-deep well of shit. "I'm not sure she's – available right now."

"Well, check again," Brendan said. "I'd _love_ to see Tommy Conlon work his magic on a girl." He laughed again.

Tommy grinned and shook his head. "Fuck you, dick," he said. He glanced at the time. "Hey, listen, Bren, I gotta run. I have another appointment. I'll call you later? Are you coming down for the fight on Tuesday?"

"Hey, I'm gonna try, okay?" Brendan said. "But I can't make any promises though, since we'll be comin' up that weekend too."

"No worries," Tommy said quickly. "Seriously – no worries. Let's just plan on hanging out next weekend? I'll let you know how the fight goes."

"Well, don't rule me out just yet," Brendan said. "I'm gonna try to figure something out. Okay?" He paused, and Tommy heard girlish shrieks in the background as well as a crashing noise. "Rosie, get away from there, come back here by me. I've gotta go, Tommy. Rosie just broke a plate in the kitchen."

"Oh, yeah, go handle that," Tommy said quickly. "Um. Tell Tess hi and the girls that I love 'em."

"I will," Brendan said. He paused. "Love you, little brother."

Tommy felt warm again, and an all-over pleasant feeling that he was totally unaccustomed to. "Yeah. I love you, too, Brendan." The words still felt so _weird_ in his mouth, but they felt really good.

He hung up with Brendan, feeling a thousand times better now that they'd cleared the air the between them. No sooner had he hung up with Brendan and put the car in gear, his phone rang again. This time it was Colt.

"Hey," Tommy said by way of greeting. "What's up?"

"Hey, bro!" Colt's typically enthusiastic voice boomed in his ear. "Listen, I know you're busy today but I just wanted to call and tell you some good news."

"What's that?" Tommy said curiously. Maybe they'd decided to run the ad statewide and not just locally.

"You are unofficially on the roster for Sparta," Colt said. "Congrats, champ!"

"Wait," Tommy said uncertainly. "What does that mean exactly?"

"What that means is, they've reserved a spot for you. They will consider you a part of the roster until it's determined that you're not."

"Which is contingent on whether or not I win the fight on Tuesday," Tommy said slowly.

"Pretty much," Colt replied. "Listen, though, bro. I got all faith in you. I know you can bring this home and get us to AC. Right? You got this. You just win that one little fight – in front of J.J. Riley – and you're golden. No sweat. Right?"

"Right," Tommy replied. _Maybe._

"Anyway, bro, I just wanted to call and let you know that. I'd sorta hoped you'd be more pumped, but it's all good. One step at a time, I respect that. Take it easy this weekend but don't slack off, all right? I don't want you to get lazy but I don't want you to risk injuring yourself either. Light runs, light weights, some bag work and drills Saturday and Sunday. Monday, same thing, Tuesday we take it easy and then bring it home. Sound good?"

"Got you," Tommy said. "Listen, I don't mean to rush you off the phone but I have an appointment that I need to get to. Thanks for calling, Colt. And – and I am excited to hear that."

"Good," Colt said warmly. "All right, man, go handle your business. I'll talk to you soon."

Tommy hung up with Colt and tried to examine how he really felt. On the one hand he _was_ very excited that Sparta had decided to hold a spot for him. On the other – it added immense pressure to the already enormous pile of it he carried on his shoulders. He took a deep breath; he needed to have a little faith in himself. This week had gone pretty good, training-wise. The problem was that he didn't know how he was going to react mentally to being back in an environment that he'd all but had a breakdown in the last time he was there.

That was really fucking with him.

He glanced at the dashboard, seeing he had about thirty minutes to get to his appointment. If anyone could help talk him through it, it was Liv.

* * *

Olivia sat at her desk, going over some patient notes before Tommy arrived. She'd been there most of the afternoon after Professor Katz's last class had let out a few hours earlier. It had been another day when she'd been filled with impatience, though she had done her best to control it. However, she thanked the Lord when Professor Katz ended her lecture when she did; if Olivia had had to endure another thirty seconds of that woman's trembling, scratchy voice – bless her heart – Olivia was going to, as the college kids said, "FTFO".

Her cell phone rang, and Olivia was so into what she was looking at that for a moment she was totally confused as to which of her phones was ringing – the work Blackberry, or her personal iPhone. It took her a shamefully long moment to shake out of her focus and stare at her phones, and then she lunged for the iPhone, seeing a number across the screen she didn't recognize.

"This is Olivia," she said evenly.

"Hi, this is Olivia Ortega that I'm speaking with? Are you the daughter of Yessenia Ortega?" The voice was male, a little older, and one that Olivia didn't immediately recognize.

"Yes," Olivia replied cautiously. "Who may I ask is calling?"

"This is Dwight McCarty with Premier Credit Solutions. I'm calling to inform you that the credit account that was previously held by Yessenia Ortega has been delinquent for quite some time. It has been turned over to a collection agency, but there have been no payments made, and I wanted to inform you that the lawsuit is about to be drawn up unless you can make the payments."

"What?" Olivia exclaimed. She cleared her throat and tried to adopt a more reasonable tone. "I mean, can you tell me what this is all about? My mother passed away a few _years_ ago; how is it possible that this is just now surfacing?"

"Your mother's ex-husband was listed as a contact for the account, and he was making payments irregularly for a while, approximately a year after her death. The credit card company had not received a payment since then, so they turned the account over to our agency. We've tried to contact him several times to no avail. They are having the legal paperwork drawn up now, and on a whim, I went through her records more closely and saw your name. It appears that as her next living kin, the account will transfer to you as well as the lawsuit unless you can make the payments."

Olivia's head was spinning. She brought a hand to her forehead. "How much are we talking, exactly?"

"The unpaid account for roughly two years plus the unpaid interest fees, late fees, and overdraft fees bring the account to eight thousand seven hundred fifty-six dollars, and seventy-two cents."

Olivia felt like throwing up. "I can assure you that there is no possible way for me to make that payment all at once."

"Can you make a partial payment today?" Dwight asked.

Olivia's mind swirled. Currently, she had two hundred fifty-four dollars and thirty-three cents in her bank account, from her most recent week of work at the gym. The mortgage was paid, but the money she had in her account had already been budgeted to make partial payments on the electricity and gas bills that were getting out of control. She'd only been at Colt's for a couple of weeks, and most of the money had gone to catching up on other out of control bills and the mortgage. Whatever little she had left she'd spent on groceries.

"Does it have to be today?" she asked. "I don't have a lot of money."

"If you can make a payment today and show activity on the account, then the lawsuit proceedings will be halted." Dwight hesitated, then spoke to her gently. "Miss Ortega, if I may, I am sure I don't understand what a hard time you're going through right now. But I can assure you that it will be far more expensive if the lawsuit proceeds – then you're looking at court costs and other fees. If you can just make at least, say, a couple hundred dollars' payment today, that would suffice to keep the account active at the collection agency."

_And all the while it fucks up _my_ credit now._ She felt a brief surge of anger toward her mother; how could she have been so financially irresponsible in life? Then she felt horrible. It wasn't her fault; Yessenia had done the best she could on what little she'd had. The anger transferred to her father; it was always much easier to be angry with Miguel, because he always deserved it.

She agreed to make the payment, and dully read out the information on her debit card for a payment in the amount of two hundred dollars, and agreed to contact the credit agency to work out some sort of payment schedule going forward. As soon as she was off the phone with them, she immediately called Miguel.

"Olivia," he said formally when he answered the phone. "What do you need from me today?"

For a moment, Olivia was speechless at his rudeness. And although she detested herself for it, she could do nothing to fight the tears that immediately sprang to her eyes at his words. "Dad, I just got a call from this collection agency regarding one of Mom's old credit card accounts," she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "Do you know anything about that? They said that for a year after her death you made some payments."

"Yes, I did," Miguel replied. "Is there a problem?"

"Well, yes," Olivia said slowly. "The payments you made weren't enough to settle the account, and then you stopped, so it eventually went to a collection agency, and _they_ didn't get paid, and now they're getting ready to sue people."

"They're not suing _me_," Miguel said assuredly. "I made it clear after the last payment that the company needed to get off my back. I helped out of the goodness of my heart, but Yessenia hasn't been my wife in many years and I see no reason why I need to bear the brunt of her irresponsibility."

"Right, they were getting ready to sue _me_," Olivia said. "I didn't know anything about this account, Dad. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Did you have the money to take care of it?" he asked rhetorically.

"That's not the point," Olivia said impatiently. "They still need their money. You would really sit back and let my credit be destroyed and let me potentially get _sued_ because you didn't feel like paying anymore?"

"Why should I?" Miguel asked. "Again, Yessenia hadn't been my wife in many years. You are her next of kin – that is your responsibility, your problem."

"You're completely contradicting yourself," Olivia said through gritted teeth, feeling the hold on her self-control start to slip.

"Regardless. What is it you are calling me for?"

Olivia bit her lip, willing her eyes to stop stinging. "I need some help," she muttered. "I just paid my last two hundred bucks to the collection agency to get them to stop the lawsuit proceeding. But that money was budgeted for other bills, and I'm flat broke."

"And what does that have to do with me?" Miguel asked evenly.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm facing getting my electricity and gas shut off if I don't bring my accounts to current."

"Your financial mismanagement is no longer my problem."

Olivia's eyes flew open. "What?"

"I mean, I am no longer contributing to your irresponsible lifestyle. You elected to pursue a ridiculous amount of time in college, when you could have been well into a career by now. You're almost thirty years old, and you're still coming to your parents for handouts. Anything regarding your mother's finances or yours is no longer my concern."

"Are you joking?" Olivia demanded. "I'm pursuing an education – a _free_ education – to become a doctor! I'm about three and a half months away from becoming a doctor of psychology, and you're basically telling me I'm, what, squandering my life?"

"It's not that I am not incapable of recognizing the gravity of your soon-to-be office," Miguel said, sounding distinctly bored. "However your decision to do this has placed you in an unfortunate financial situation. Your program, free though it is as far as tuition goes, is not really free because you cannot work. You receive a minimal stipend that is not enough to live on. And you feel that you can rely on my money no matter what you do in life, is that it? Well, Olivia, listen to me. I'm giving you a dose of tough love. You find your own way from here on out. You're more than an adult, and you're obviously intelligent given your education. Although the argument stands to reason that book smarts and common sense might be mutually exclusive ideals."

Olivia's mouth fell open, and she couldn't do anything but sit there and listen to her father berate her. Her eyes stung and burned, and she gave it everything she had to keep the tear inside her eyes.

"Besides," Miguel went on, "I know about your little 'under the table' job. The last time I made a deposit into your account, I saw a cash deposit of two hundred dollars. I don't know _what_ you're doing, but I'd be willing to bet it's something shameful." His voice became disapproving. "If I find out my daughter is stripping…"

"I'm not stripping!" Olivia exclaimed angrily, deeply insulted. "I'm _cleaning!_"

"Ah, yes, because that's much better." Miguel sighed. "It's a shame that our people have come so far, only to see that we have truly not gone anywhere."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Olivia demanded. "You're not even making sense right now!"

"You'll speak to me with respect," Miguel said. "I don't know who you think you are or who you think _I_ am, but I will not tolerate my daughter speaking to me in this way. You'll be fine, Olivia, just learn to do without."

And he hung up on her.

For a long moment, Olivia stared at the phone in her hand, unable to comprehend what had just happened. She had turned to her father – her _father – _for help, and he had given her none. Instead, he had taken away all the help he had been giving her, and left her saddled with even more debt – debt that didn't even really belong to her. And now, she was flat broke until her next windfall, and was probably going to be without air conditioning, lights, hot water, and electricity for a while.

She had no idea what she was going to do.

The stinging in her eyes grew and burned, and she swallowed hard several times to try to get herself under control. She went through every technique that she learned, that she knew was effective. She took deep breaths, she counted to ten and beyond, she thought of things that made her happy.

And then she burst into tears.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: I got somethin' for ya. A second update today. All Liv/Tommy. All of it. Probably not in the way you're hoping for. But - whatever. Just read. And review, please! Last chapter got lots of hits but only a couple reviews so far (and thank you!) so please - tell me what's on ya mind. xoxo**

**Chapter 19**

Tommy parked his truck outside the building that housed Liv's office, noting that her Toyota Corolla appeared to be the only other one in the parking lot. And luckily for him, that douche Kenny didn't appear to be anywhere in sight.

He was a little late, having lingered on the phone with his brother and Colt a little too long, and traffic had been a supreme bitch to navigate, since people generally knocked off their jobs a little earlier on Fridays, anxious to start the weekend. He shut and locked the doors of the truck and headed inside. The office was nice and cool, a reprieve from the heat outside that had made Tommy regret his choice of jeans and a gray and white striped short-sleeved shirt. It was a T-shirt, but a nicer one. And that annoying little voice in the back of his head, the one that told the truth, said that lunch with his father and his father's girlfriend hadn't been the only reason that Tommy had spiffed up a little more than usual. _Hair gel. You put hair gel on your head, Conlon. You wanna say you don't have at least a little interest?_

He ignored the voice. For the dual purpose of not feeling annoyed and because he knew it was true.

Olivia's office was the last one in the hallway, on the left, and he strode down the carpeted hall. As he got closer, he heard noises coming from her office. He paused, cocking his head and listening. If he wasn't completely mistaken, it sounded like someone was in there crying.

_Damn, did her last appointment run long? _he wondered. Then he remembered that she'd said she taught or assisted or something at the university on Fridays; he wasn't sure that she took appointments before late afternoon on Fridays. Maybe it was someone who really needed to talk to her about something that had just shown up without an appointment. Liv was nice enough that he could totally see her ushering them in to talk.

Maybe he'd just be patient and wait a little while longer.

He leaned against the wall outside her office, listening to whoever it was in there as they continued to cry. The moments stretched longer, and Tommy realized that there were no words being spoken – that the person was _just_ crying. He frowned. Maybe Olivia wanted to let them get it all out before they said anything more. Then he frowned harder. Olivia always shut her door for privacy whenever there was a session. Always.

Was she the one who was crying?

Tommy leaned over and peeked around the corner of the doorframe, noting that there was no one sitting in her designated seating area for sessions. He moved to stand in the doorway, and his eyes moved toward the back of the room. There she was.

And she was crying.

He watched silently for a little while, his heart going out to her, as she leaned her elbows on the desk, her hands cupped around forehead as her shoulders shook. She wasn't crying very loudly or outright sobbing, but she was clearly really upset by something or someone. For a moment, he debated sneaking off down the hall and leaving, and then calling or texting her with some phony excuse of why he couldn't make it to the appointment. Crying women made him completely uncomfortable; he'd dealt with his mother's tears for so many years that his discomfort shouldn't really exist, but maybe that's why it did.

On the other hand, Olivia had been there for him in ways that no one else had been. Granted, he realized it was her job, but he also realized that she wasn't getting any compensation for helping him out. She'd agreed to do it because…she was a nice person who cared about helping other people. Period. And he'd come to think of her as something like a friend, not just his "shrink" anymore these days. She wasn't a superhero, and despite all her education and training, things could still bother her, too. Hell, maybe someone else in her family had died.

He couldn't just walk away.

Instead, uncomfortable though he _really_ was, he lifted a hand and rapped lightly on the door frame, not wanting to scare her. She jumped anyway, and her head snapped up, saw him, then whipped around to look at the clock on the wall, and then moved back to him. Her ruddy complexion was splotchy, her eyes red and watering, and the tip of her nose was slightly red too. He noticed that her upper lip was puffy from the crying, and then registered dimly that the reason why he noticed that was because he spent way too much damn time looking at her mouth.

He shook it off and focused, and took a couple hesitant steps into the room. "Hey," he said softly. "You're – not okay."

Olivia's hand shot out and swiped a couple tissues from the box on her desk, turning her back on him to blow her nose. She chucked the tissues and made small work of trying to clean up her face.

"God, I'm sorry, Tommy. One second." She sniffled loudly and then took a swig of water. She offered him a shaky smile but he knew she wasn't done crying; her eyes were still brimming with tears.

"No, stay there," he said, taking a few more steps closer to her. He kept his hands in his pockets and leaned against the small counter right next to her desk, where the coffee maker was. "Tell me." He spoke hesitantly, wondering if he was crossing a boundary, but he absolutely did not know what the rule book said on what to do when you walk in on your shrink crying her eyes out.

"No, no," she said. She stood up, and Tommy couldn't help checking her out. He hadn't really seen her in jeans very much, but she was wearing them today, with a flowing, pretty cream colored sleeveless top. The back of it was entirely nonexistent, cut out to her waist, but she made it office-appropriate by adding a cream colored tank underneath although, despite his best efforts, he couldn't help noticing the gorgeous, tanned cleavage the scoop-neck of it exposed. She had on a pair of flat bronze sandals, and her long dark hair was swept up into its usual ponytail. She would have been so pretty, were it not for the distraught look on her face. Even the evidence of heavy crying couldn't take away from her prettiness; but that look of all-consuming worry did. "No, we're already past your start time and I want to make sure you get to talk about everything you need to."

"Liv," Tommy said quietly. "It's okay. Really. You're in no shape to sit around and hear more of my bullshit. Maybe…maybe you can do the talking today, and I'll listen."

She gave him a sad smile. "I'm afraid that's not how this works, Tommy." She patted his arm. "Come on."

As she moved past him, he slowly reached out and took hold of her forearm. She whirled in complete surprise, and he quickly let her go, not wanting to freak her out.

"Listen," he said gently. "It's none of my business, and you can definitely tell me to fuck off. But I won't put you through sitting here with me for an hour listening to me bitch and moan about the state of my actually pretty decent life that I need to learn to appreciate, when you've got somethin' goin' on, too." He studied her face as she slowly met his eyes. He felt like she really needed to hear something positive about her, something uplifting, so he spoke honestly. "I just – I really appreciate you, you know? Like, I feel like you've helped me a lot, and we haven't had that many sessions. I feel…_good_ today. I went to lunch with Pop and his new girlfriend and had a decent time with them. I had a good talk with Brendan. I even got some decent news today." He gave her a crooked smile, feeling pleased when she tried to give him one back.

"That's so awesome," she said sincerely, and it went straight to his heart. Even with whatever she was going through, she could still find a way to be genuinely happy for him about something so minor, in the grand scheme of things. Because she knew that in _his_ life, it was major. Totally, completely major. "I'm really happy to hear that."

"My point in saying that," Tommy said, realizing that, to his ears, it sort of sounded like he was rubbing it in her face, which of course he wasn't, but if he were on the receiving end he would take it that way, "is to let you know that you've had a lot to do with helping me deal with stuff and sorta rearranging my perception of my circumstances. And, um, I really appreciate you for that." He felt like the tips of his ears were bright red, but he met her gaze instead of looking away, like he normally would have done.

Olivia blushed a little too. "Well. It's just my job. I mean, you're more than, like, a job of course, you're a person. I care about you. About helping you," she added quickly, flushing deeper. "About helping people. Because that's what I do."

Tommy was interested in how flustered she suddenly seemed. "Hey," he said, an idea forming. "I'm here, right?"

"Yes," Olivia said, her brow furrowing slightly as she wondered where he was going with it.

"Okay. That your appointment book?" He pointed to a large spiral notebook that he remembered her holding last time.

"Yes," she repeated, watching him curiously.

"Okay." He opened the appointment book to the current month, and scratched out his appointment for the current day. He noted that the following Monday appeared open, and was mindful that she had class that day, so he penciled himself in for five o'clock. When he was done, he looked up at her and smiled. "I'm rescheduling to Monday. So, since I'm here, by the way, it looks like something is bothering you. So what's up?" He straightened and folded his arms, giving her another small, encouraging smile.

She huffed out a brief laugh, and he was pleased to see that the redness of her eyes was fading, as well as the blotchiness of her face. Her lip was still puffy, though, and her voice was still a little nasally the way it got after lots of tears. She bit her lip and stared down at her toes, painted bright red, then looked back up at him.

"You're – really nice," she said quietly. "Like, so, so nice. But, this just isn't really appropriate, Tommy. Given our working relationship, and everything."

Tommy refused to give up. "I understand. But it's not like you're really my therapist. I just call you that because it's easier than sayin' 'this girl that is helping me find a therapist while she also helps me work through my issues for free'." He felt a little surge of triumph at the small smile he got for that. "Listen," he added more seriously. "I know there's rules and stuff. But I guess since our situation isn't strictly by the book, I look at you as more of – of a friend than my shrink. It's okay if you don't or can't look at me like a friend. But I just want you to know, you can talk to me too, you know." He shrugged. "Who better than me understands the struggle?"

Olivia looked up at him again, and he could practically see the debate she was having with herself. "I appreciate that," she said finally, and her voice had gotten all soft and sweet and warm. "It's just hard, you know, opening up to other people given what I do for a living. And it's really weird to do that with someone who's sort of a patient."

"Not today, I'm not," Tommy said. He reached out and took her forearm again, and tugged it gently toward her seating area. "C'mon. Let's sit down for this. You have the most comfortable couch in the world."

He sat on the couch and she sat in her chair across from him, with the coffee table in between. She pushed her glasses back onto her face and tucked her legs underneath her. She fiddled with the ring she was wearing on the middle finger of her right hand, some little diamond-y heart shaped thing. Tommy got the feeling that she was stalling because she really, really didn't want to talk; but, tough. He wanted to help her.

"Do you want some coffee?" she asked finally, glancing up.

"No, thanks," he replied, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "I want to know what's up. And if I can help."

A tiny smile tugged at her lips as she looked at him. "You're relentless."

"Sometimes," he agreed. He took a guess. "Is it…about your mom?"

Olivia shrugged one shoulder. "In a way. I mean, one part is."

"Your dad the other part?"

She looked at him, startled this time. "What makes you think it's about my dad?" she asked.

It was Tommy's turn to shrug his shoulders. "I remember the first time I was here I made some comment about my 'daddy issues'. And you sort of got this really understanding look on your face, like you knew just what I was talkin' about. Not many people know what it's like unless they have daddy issues too. So, I just guessed." He was right, he knew it, by the look on her face. "I'm right?"

It looked like Liv was taking a really deep breath, and in a rush as she exhaled, he heard a quiet, "Yes." She glanced away from him, shaking her head, and for a minute he was pretty sure that the conversation was over. But finally, she spoke again. "My father…can be really cruel sometimes."

"Yeah," was all Tommy said in reply, watching her.

"Not like in the ways that your father was cruel to you," she said, then flashed him an apologetic look. "Sorry. I didn't mean for that to come out the way it sounded."

"No, not a problem," Tommy said, waving a hand dismissively. "What does your dad do to you?"

"He finds ways to hurt me…passively," she said. "He makes me feel bad about myself. Even when I should feel proud. For instance, he disapproves of my career path because of all the extra school that's involved."

"Right, because it's a requirement to get your _doctorate_," Tommy said in disbelief. Liv was every parent's wet dream; and her old man couldn't see that?

"He doesn't really consider that," Olivia replied. "He thinks I should be well into a career now."

Tommy shook his head. He didn't get that one at all. "What else?"

Olivia cleared her throat. "He just doesn't seem to like me very much," she said in a small voice that made Tommy want to cry for her. Because he _got it_. "I feel like I'm a hindrance in his life. I needed – I _need_ – his help, and he just…took it away from me. And then actually added to my pile of problems."

"What kinda problems?" Tommy asked.

Olivia blushed. "Just – life stuff. I just thought I could count on his help as far as that went, but today he pretty much left me high and dry."

"Are we talking money here?" Tommy asked bluntly.

Olivia blushed a deeper shade of red. "Just some extra stuff he was giving me," she said. "I get a stipend from the school, but it's not really enough to cover everything. He was helping with the extras. Like food and stuff."

"Food is not an 'extra'," Tommy said. He was feeling sort of pissed; what kind of man allowed his daughter to willingly suffer? "So he's not helping you out with that anymore. How did he add to your problems, like you said?"

Olivia looked away, and Tommy thought she was going to cry again. "I – I found out something about my mom today, a problem she had from before she died. And I guess this issue is now becoming my issue. I went to my dad for help, and he pretty much told me to take a hike as far as that went. And then told me he wasn't giving me any more money either, on top of that."

"Liv, stop talking in generalities and just tell me," Tommy said gently. "I won't judge you, I promise."

She swallowed hard and looked at him, her face reddening with embarrassment. "My mom managed to rack up an eight thousand dollar credit card bill, and my father was paying on it for about a year after she died, and then he stopped. And I got a call today informing me that if I didn't make some kind of payment that I was going to be sued."

"Jesus," Tommy breathed.

"So I made the payment, and cleaned out my account in doing so, and then when I called my father for help he pretty much told me that her problem was now _my_ problem, that I needed to figure it out, and oh, yeah – he's done with helping me out each month too." She bit her lip. "And I think my lights and my gas are about to be cut off. I can probably get an advance from Colt, I just –"

"How much you need?"

Olivia looked at him sharply. "I am _not_ asking for your money."

"I know that," Tommy said patiently. "I'm offering it to you. How much to square your utilities and get some food?"

"Nothing," Olivia said evenly, "now drop it. That wasn't my point. I just – I always knew my dad could be an asshole. I just never thought it could go this far. This is how you treat someone you dislike, that you don't care anything about. And I guess – maybe I was in denial but I just thought at the very least, no matter what, he would at least make sure I was okay."

"I'm sorry," Tommy said softly. "I really am. And I wish I could say that you should give your dad the benefit of the doubt, but I can't. Actions speak louder than words." He leaned forward. "But luckily, you got people around you who care about your well-being, so, if you could just let me know…"

"Tommy," she said sharply. "Stop it. I am not accepting anything from you. For one thing, I'm not asking and that's not why I told you. For another, it would be so unbelievably unethical. For _another_ –"

"For another, you think too much," Tommy said. "Listen, Liv. You need help right now. You need someone to talk to, to listen to you, sure. I get that, and I'm more than willing to keep doing that, too. But you also got real-life shit going on here, and you're in a bind." He shrugged. "What, are you gonna do without electricity and lights and hot water and shit? Until you get some money together? For what? That would be stupid, and you're not a stupid person."

Olivia only looked at him, and again, he could tell that she was at war with herself – her practical side that understood perfectly what he was saying, and that "ethical" side that couldn't accept it.

"You can pay me back, if you want," he said. "I would personally prefer you didn't, but I'm open to an arrangement. You need help, Olivia. You helped me when I needed it. In fact, you still are. Now you need help. And I'm sitting here not as your patient, or the son of one of your patients. I'm just sittin' here as _me._ And I've got the means to help you out, and I want to. So let me. Please."

Her pale green eyes suddenly gleamed, and he shifted uncomfortably as he realized they were filled up with tears again. "I – I don't know what to say," she said in a defeated way that broke his heart a little.

"Just – say yes," he said softly. "Even though, if you said no, there's not that many places where you could have utility accounts. I'd find out eventually and just do this all behind your back." He smiled teasingly at her, and she managed a little smile back through her tears. He really did feel like shit for her; his father had treated him and Brendan like shit growing up, but they hadn't really wanted for anything as far as basic human necessities went. And now, in their present state, Tommy knew that Paddy wouldn't hesitate to give up his last bite of food, the shirt off his back, his bed, his house, his car, if someone he cared about was in need. It was one of the qualities about the old man that allowed Tommy to respect him in the way he did now. Even with his upbringing, he didn't know how he'd be or what he'd do if Paddy treated him and/or Brendan in the way that Olivia's father treated her.

He looked at her, and realized that he wished he could give her a hug. Tommy had people in his life that he could hug that he _chose_ not to, or got uncomfortable when they did. But that didn't change the fact that they were there. His brother. His sister-in-law. His nieces. His buddies at the gym. Even Paddy. And now, apparently, Cathy. He couldn't help wondering who was in Olivia's life that could hug her and provide her with some comfort that things would be okay. "Say yes, Liv."

She stared down at her lap, then nodded slowly. "Yes," she whispered. She looked up and met his gaze. "Thank you, Tommy." Her eyes were wide and filled with a strange mixture of gratitude and pain, appreciation and shame. He didn't like that look, at all.

"You got online accounts?" he asked lightly, as much to change the subject as to really find out.

"Yeah," she replied. "Why?"

He stood up from the seat and extended a hand. "Let's get it all taken care of. Now."

She stared at his hand, then up at him. "_Now_?"

"Yeah. Why not? Don't you want to be able to relax at home knowing that you're all right this weekend?" He reached for her hand and tugged lightly until she stood up. "Go bring your accounts up."

She stared at him over her shoulder for a minute, as if she still couldn't believe what was happening, and moved to her laptop. She sat down and clacked at the keys. After a little while, she said, "Okay."

He moved around behind her and saw that she had her electric bill account pulled up. He noticed that there was a glaring red "past due" graphic on the screen, next to a figure that was close to three hundred dollars. He glanced down at her, and saw that she was looking away, her cheeks red with shame and embarrassment.

"Stop that," he said softly. "I don't give a rat's ass, okay? Shit happens. If it weren't for my big brother, I'd be livin' in a fuckin' box." He moved the laptop toward him, and pulled his debit card out of his wallet.

Olivia cleared her throat. "I spoke to the company," she said quietly, "and they said they would accept about a hundred dollars for now. I can do the rest later. And I'll pay you back as soon as I can."

Tommy gave her a sidelong look, then typed in the full amount owed and entered the payment. When the screen changed, it showed a new green icon that said "current amount owed" next to a big fat zero. He pushed the laptop back toward her. "Pull up your other account."

Olivia glanced at the screen and gasped. "Tommy!"

"Don't argue," he said with a smile. "C'mon. Your other account." He decided that he really liked this helping-out thing. It made him feel good.

Reluctantly, Olivia typed at the keys, and then slowly pushed the laptop back toward him. Her gas bill was not quite as bad, but he could see that it was also past due. He paid it in full. Olivia glanced at the screen, noting she was back to a zero balance, and swallowed hard. Then he opened his wallet again and pulled out forty dollars. He handed it over. She lifted her face to look up at him, her eyes wide.

"It's all the cash I have on me at the moment," he said. "Is that enough for some groceries? I could give you more on Monday."

"This is too much. I don't know how to thank you," she said thickly. "I feel…so blessed and so much like shit right now."

"Why would you feel like shit?" Tommy asked, mystified.

"I feel like such an imposition on you," she said tearfully. "You could have found a much better way to spend almost six hundred bucks than doing this."

"I helped out a friend," he said quietly. "Best way I can think of. Now, stop." He leaned down, and before he could stop himself, he reached for her chin, grasping it gently and pulling it toward him, making her look him in the eye. "Liv. I'm happy to have helped you. And I know you will, but I don't even want you to pay me back. Really. You're not even getting paid for seeing me. This is the least I could do."

Her eyes kept brimming over and she shook her head. "No, Tommy, I –"

"Shh." He realized he was still touching her face and let her go, backing up and away slowly. "Now, what are we gonna do about that credit card debt of your mom's?"

"_We_ aren't going to do anything," Olivia said firmly. "That is my cross to bear. I will make some kind of arrangement with the collection agency. And that is final."

Tommy held up his hands, even though he was already trying to figure out a way to get her at least part of that money. "If you say so."

"You've done more than enough for me." Olivia brushed her fingertips lightly over her cheeks. "And you're right. I will be paying you back. Every cent."

"If that's what you wanna do," Tommy said lightly. "I consider this money well spent." Then Olivia smiled at him, that wide, sweet smile she had, and it made a warm flush sweep throughout his body. _Really well spent._

She wiped at her face again and sighed. "I'm sorry today was such a bust, Tommy. I promise we'll get some real work done on Monday."

He shrugged. "I'm not worried about it," he said. "I just hope you get to feeling better. Maybe you and your dad can find some common ground."

"I'm not entirely sure I want to, anymore," Olivia said softly. She sighed and got to her feet, packing up her laptop and her phones. "Well. I should probably get going. I need to let my dog out."

"What kinda dog you got?" Tommy asked.

"He's an Akita," she replied. "His name is Achilles. He's my bud."

Tommy smiled. "All I heard was 'big ass exotic dog'."

"With big teeth." Olivia smiled playfully back, though it still seemed kind of wan. "I'm sure you have a busy weekend. Right? Getting ready for your next fight."

Tommy glanced at her curiously. "How did you know about that?"

A sheepish look crossed her face. "Your – your dad mentioned it to me. At his last session." She flushed red again.

"Figures," he replied, but he wasn't really upset. "And yeah. I do. Just gonna do some easier workouts this weekend, just tryin' to get my head in the game."

"We can go over your concerns on Monday, if you want," Olivia said. "I have an idea for an exercise I'd like to try, but that could wait if there are pressing issues to discuss."

"I'd be willing to try an exercise," Tommy said. "Whatever works."

"Okay." Olivia nodded and he followed her to the door as she locked up. They walked down the hall in comfortable silence and Tommy waited again as she shut and secured the main building entrance. He'd parked right next to her car, so they crossed the lot together.

When they reached their vehicles she turned to him again and placed her hand on his arm. "Tommy," she said quietly. "Thank you. Again. I – I don't know what I would have done without your help. I probably would have just let whatever happened, happen. Gone without lights, hot water, whatever. And because of your kindness, I don't have to do that now. I can't tell you what that means, especially after the talk I had with my father." She bit her lip. "I can't thank you enough."

Tommy shifted under the praise, glancing down at the small tanned hand on his arm before glancing out at the main busy street, still full of cars even though it was close to six now. "It's really no big deal," he said. "I couldn't – wouldn't – stand by and just let you suffer when I have the means to help. And I'm sorry about your dad," he added. "I hope you know that he's wrong about you. Whatever he said – he's wrong. You're special, Liv, and –"

He broke off, catching himself before he said something way too personal, and because of the way she was staring up at him. He looked back at her, losing himself in the warm, jade green depths of her eyes, thinking that horrible look of worry and pain that had been on her face earlier was gone, and now he could see all that beauty again, open and all over her face, as it was turned up at him.

And then he realized he'd been leaning down, slowly bringing his face to hers, as she had been leaning up toward him. He froze, and his mind whirled with vertigo for a second. _Holy shit._ He'd almost just kissed her, without even hardly realizing it.

And she had almost just kissed him.

It seemed to occur to her too, because suddenly her eyes went wide and she stepped back quickly, her cheeks flushing. "Um," she said, backing away. "I've gotta go let out Achilles, I'm sorry to run off."

"Yeah, no, yeah," he babbled, scrubbing the back of his neck as his own face heated up to its maximum temperature. "I'll, uh – I'll see you Monday."

"Okay," she said quickly, practically running for her car door. "Yeah. Have a nice weekend. Call me – my work phone, I mean – if you need anything. Or, whatever." She yanked open her door, and then paused, looking at him again. "Thank you, again, Tommy."

"You're welcome," he said simply, unable to say anything else. He waited until she'd driven off before he climbed into the cab and shut the door. He raked a hand through his hair, his heart still pounding hard in his chest. He thought of her mouth, just a mere inch away from his before they'd both caught themselves. It hadn't just been him; she was feeling something too. And it was more than just gratitude.

_Holy shit,_ he thought, his heart pounding hard enough to where he thought he should be concerned. _Holy shit._


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Whoa! Thanks for all the reviews on the last couple chappies, guys! I really appreciate it. Really REALLY do! Here's a new one. Sorry for any typos. I'm super tired-like. Go nuts. xoxo **

**Chapter 20**

Saturday was one of the first days that Olivia had completely and thoroughly to herself in a long time. And it was awesome. She slept in as late as she could manage, waking only briefly in the early morning to let Achilles outside and feed him his breakfast, which he quickly wolfed down before trotting after her back to the bedroom. He rarely ate if she wasn't standing close by him, so she leaned drowsily by the counter while he scarfed his kibble. Once she had staggered back to bed, he leaped agilely onto it, turned around once, and then settled down, resting his head on her foot.

When she finally woke up, sometime around nine, she could only lie on her back for a little while, staring at the ceiling. Since she'd gotten home last night, she hadn't been able to stop thinking – about her father's most recent display of his spectacular ability to be a giant asshole, about her financial predicament, about Tommy's utter kindness. About Tommy himself.

Olivia turned onto her side, hugging her pillow, and stared out the window. It was a gloomy day, cloudy and threatening rain; the sort of day that begged for hours on the sofa with a good book or a series of movies, and a nice cup of perfectly brewed coffee. And, most importantly, isolation. She knew that she was sensitive to changes in the weather as they pertained to her moods; and days like this made her very aware of how truly lonely she was. And alone.

Aside from Miguel, Olivia didn't have another living relation that she was "close" to - close being the operative word, because she and Miguel were light years apart. Yessenia's parents had died before Olivia had been born, and the aunts and uncles she had were distant. When her mother had been alive, Olivia had seen her extended family on holidays. Now that Yessenia was gone, Olivia saw them never. She also didn't have any real friends; she had acquaintances and associates, but she didn't have a close woman friend in her life. There were groups of other doctoral students that she sometimes hung out with, either in study groups or the occasional meal out, but none of them were people that she could really count as friends or confide in or really trust.

It was just her and Achilles.

Most of the time, Olivia was busy enough to where it really didn't matter. Between writing her dissertation, working, teaching, TA'ing, and all the demands of each endeavor in between, she didn't have time to be lonely. But in a few short months, the work load would be somewhat reduced. She wouldn't have classes, wouldn't have to write an enormously long paper, wouldn't have to grade papers or teach. She would just be a full-time psychologist, devoted to helping people with their troubles. And that was fine with her.

But as she lay there quietly in bed, thinking of her life and also admittedly thinking of Tommy, she identified a deep sense of yearning, all the way down to the bottom of her heart. She thought of her father, and his family that she'd never met. She thought of her comrades in the grad program – many of them had lives that included boyfriends or husbands, and some of them even had kids. Olivia had dated casually over the years, but had never found anyone she wanted to develop a connection with. And even if there'd been potential there, she'd dismissed it, blowing it off as something to distract her from her work. But she was starting to feel like life couldn't just be about work. There were other things, important things, to enrich it, make it worth living.

Like love.

The idea of it, even the word itself, was foreign to her. She'd loved her mother, of course. And she loved Achilles. But the sort of love she didn't know much about, romantic love – that's what gave her pause. She was pretty sure she'd never been in love before. Even the guys that she had dated for a couple months in the past, she'd never been in love with any of them. Some of them she'd liked a whole hell of a lot, but it had never been love. Love was supposed to be unselfish and focused on placing the other person as the priority. And not a _one_ of the guys she had ever been involved with before had ever come close to being a priority. More than anything, they'd been annoyances. To her, relationships were situations that put annoying demands on her and sometimes included mediocre, at best, sex.

She hadn't slept with them all. In fact, since losing her virginity at age seventeen, she had slept with a grand total of three people in her whole life. One guy, the high school boyfriend she'd lost her virginity with, she'd slept with roughly a dozen times until they'd broken up after graduation. The other two had been one-time happenings that had been awkward at best, and resulted in her feeling like the encounters had been a complete waste of time. She hadn't even come. Not even close. The last guy she'd slept with had been roughly a year and a half or so ago. Before that, the other guy had been somewhere around graduating college. Her sex life was dull, to say the very least. Well – by herself, it was effective. She knew exactly what needed to be done in order to bring herself to shuddering climaxes. But that connection with another person, the want, the need, to be with someone in that way, was absent. In fact, she was sure she'd never felt that.

But all of a sudden, she found herself wanting and needing that connection. And the person that she thought of in connection to that desire happened to be Tommy. In all honesty, she was certain that she'd been attracted to him instantly, that day he'd approached her in the gym for the first time. And after getting to know him, seeing the depth of his pain, his struggles, and his unbelievably sweet and generous and caring side, it had only grown. A lot.

She thought of his lips, how close they'd been to her face last night – partly because she'd _put _her face close to his last night – and how it seemed that an invisible bucket of ice water had been turned over on them both at the same time. She'd actually been salivating, and in that moment before the ice hit, she had never wanted anything as badly in her entire life as she wanted to feel his mouth on hers.

Being the psychologist she was, she had examined her feelings thoroughly. Was it that she was swept up in the emotion of his kindness? Was it gratitude that made her feel so open to him? Was it a subconscious need to "repay" him for his generosity? Those were all fair questions, she knew, and she'd been up half the night thinking about them. And the simple answer was, hell no. What Tommy had done for her had certainly knocked over another barrier between them, inappropriate per the code of ethics she was required to stand by though it was, but it had only opened up the space for them to be open with each other. It was encouragement, to say the least.

She squeezed her thighs together and sighed, closing her eyes. It wasn't just that Tommy was as attractive as he was – Lord have mercy – but she felt a draw to him, something powerful that tugged at her soul. And it wasn't another case of a woman thinking she could heal a broken man; she could see beauty in him, in his heart, that was struggling to come out, if the _shit_ that was around it would only disappear.

And she intended to do everything she could to help him make it disappear.

* * *

Later, Olivia sat on the sofa in her living room, the TV on, and a glass of red Spanish wine in her hand. Achilles lounged on the rug nearby, worrying a giant rawhide chew contentedly. She'd spent the better part of her day working on her dissertation, having written another seven pages that she was content with and her goal was three more pages before the weekend was over. For a while she considered taking her dinner break and then picking back up where she'd left off, but after spending all day working on the paper and grading quizzes, she was burnt out. Besides, she knew better than to try to watch TV and work at the same time, and she also knew that ultimately recreation would win.

She thought about putting in a DVD, but there were quite a few movies on TV that she could be interested in, and she simply didn't feel like getting off the couch at all. She flicked through the channels, eventually settling on one of the local channels that doubled with a major network. The network was showing an action film that she'd heard about but never seen before, and she remembered being vaguely interested in it when she'd seen the previews for it last year. Of course, since this was on the local channel, they'd cut out all the language, most of the violence and the sex. _Damn near unwatchable, _she thought, snorting to herself, then wondering if she was maybe a little tipsy, half a bottle of wine later.

Half an hour into the movie, she decided to microwave some popcorn, so she got up and shuffled into the kitchen. When it was done she poured the bag of freshly popped kernels into a bowl, letting them cool a little and digging the plastic jar of parmesan cheese out of the fridge. All of a sudden, she heard "Colt's Gym" mentioned on the TV in the living room and she quickly hustled back, curious.

It was an ad for the gym. Tommy's ad, she realized. The start of the ad featured Colt talking about the gym, and then it suddenly cut to a scene of Tommy – shirtless – pounding away at the bag. After last night, and her practically nonstop thoughts of him since, Olivia felt her lower belly ignite in heat, the muscles of her sex clenching up tight as though they had a mind of their own. His hair was styled into a sexy, sleek, messy tousle, and he had a look of concentration on his face as he jabbed at the bag. The well-developed muscles of his shoulders, arms, chest, abs and back all flexed in perfect unison as he moved. His jaw clenched as he struck the bag again, then turned to the camera. In a somber, serious tone, his deep voice flowed out of the TV and into her ears. She had no idea what he even said; something about working out at Colt's gym if you wanted to be a knockout. Or something equally dumb that the commercial producers had come up with. It didn't matter what he said. Between that look on his face, his shirtless physique and his deep, rich, husky voice, all of it made Olivia's lady bits come hotly to life and she dropped the canister of parmesan.

Achilles looked up with interest, wondering if it was a tasty new treat, but Olivia quickly snatched it from the floor, still staring at the screen long after the commercial had gone off. She slowly walked back to the kitchen, and beneath her comfortable short cotton shorts she wore around the house, she felt the ease of her flesh sliding together, and she realized in surprise that she was actually…damp.

She mindlessly shook the grated cheese over her cooled popcorn, unable to keep from picturing how he looked with his bare upper half, arms and chest littered in tattoos, his bright red gym shorts, his stylishly mussed hair, and that stubble on his face. How earnest his face had been as he looked right into the camera and spoke that dumb line between his spectacular lips.

Dammit if she didn't want him...bad.

She slammed the container of grated cheese on the counter and for a moment leaned against the edge of it. Now that the ad had gone local, she knew that meant a ton of exposure for him. And that meant a lot of hometown attention. She loathed herself for it, but could do nothing to ebb the flow of jealousy that ran over her. She was obviously not the only red-blooded woman in town with eyes. She knew that women were going to swarm him even more than they assuredly did now. And she couldn't help but wonder how he was going to react to it. He was a _dude_, after all, and a gorgeous one with an amazing body and lots of notoriety. Plus he had that "bad boy" thing going on with those tattoos and that generally sullen deportment. All of that equaled one life-size, walking chocolate bar in the eyes of women around him.

He had needs like any other man, Olivia reasoned to herself as she put the cheese away and decided to hell with it, and grabbed the bottle of wine as well. He needed to get laid like any other man. A sudden thought made her stop in his tracks. Who even ever said that Tommy was single? True, he'd never mentioned a girlfriend per se, but he'd never said he didn't have one, either. Maybe he was doing all kinds of work between the thighs of another woman. The thought made her absolutely sick with jealousy. And even if he was single, which she was really starting to wonder about, no one ever said he liked _her_. There were plenty of women in this town more attractive, more eager, more willing, more available than she was. He thought of her as a friend - he'd said as much tonight. They were pals. Buddies. In his eyes, anyway; Olivia had yet to inform him of her opinion of their relationship.

_How do I feel about you, you ask? Well. Let me tell you. I can't technically call you a friend because I'm counseling you, even though I'm not technically your therapist. In fact, our meetings have to be under the table because I'm helping you for free. I'm also apparently willing to accept your money to pay my bills, too. Oh, and you're also the object of all of my sexual fantasies and have the ability to get me wet with your on-screen image and voice alone. I also have an enormous crush on you because your agony and pain touch my heart in ways that they're not supposed to. _

"Yeah, I'm awesome," Olivia said out loud, disgusted with herself. She carried her snack back into the living room and dropped dejectedly onto her sofa. She hardly paid attention to the movie now as she morosely chomped on her popcorn. She wasn't sure why she was feeling so moody now, but seeing the commercial, how fucking _gorgeous_ Tommy looked in it, and thinking about almost getting the opportunity to taste his mouth yesterday after his absurdly wonderful gesture to help her out had been a bit much. Instead of thinking positively about them and him, she was getting down on herself and second-guessing everything.

Suddenly her phone buzzed and it made her jump almost a foot, and she nearly upended her glass of wine in the process. It was her work phone. She leaned forward toward the coffee table and snatched the Blackberry into her hand, and saw she had a text message. Her heart began to thud swiftly in her chest when she saw who it was from. As if by some sort of involuntary conjuring magic, Tommy Conlon was texting her.

"Probably just scheduling an appointment," she told herself out loud. Then she remembered he had already done that in her office yesterday. With slightly trembling fingers she opened the message.

_Hey. I know I probably shouldn't be using your work line for this, but just wanted to check on you and see if everything was going ok for you._

She swallowed. Tommy was checking up on her to make sure she was okay. _She_ was the shrink, _he_ was the guy with all sorts of emotional problems and a gnarly case of PTSD...and he was thinking of her personal bullshit.

_I'm doing fine. Thanks to you. Seriously - thank you SO much. I can't say it enough. _

_No worries Liv. Glad you're doing ok._

_How are you? I saw the ad. It looked great. _Olivia caught herself from almost typing "you looked great".

_Thanks. I haven't seen it. I won't watch it. Glad to hear it went over well though. Hey, I won't take up any more of your time. I just wanted to check on you. I'll see you on Monday. Enjoy the rest of your weekend._

_Thanks Tommy. You too._

She stared at her phone, reading and re-reading their exchange, and felt that self-loathing again when she also felt hope start to rise in her chest. Maybe Tommy thought of her as more than his "shrink" or his friend. Maybe he cared on a different level. Maybe he felt about her the way she felt about him. Why else would he bother?

_Why are you even thinking about this in terms of you guys having a "chance"? _she wondered irritably. _You sound pathetic and dumb. __Technicality or no, he's your patient. Your his therapist, and that's it. He can screw, date, marry anyone he wants and you don't have an opinion. It's his life._

"Marry?" she muttered out loud. How in the _hell_ had that word popped into her head. She tossed the Blackberry across the sofa, sighing heavily. "You're losing it," she added to herself, and swigged right from the wine bottle.

* * *

Tommy glanced down at his phone after getting Olivia's last message. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to text her. Well, that wasn't true; he couldn't stop thinking about her. About last night. It was driving him crazy. And although he understood that the number he had for her was a work number, not a personal one, he couldn't stand letting another minute go by without some kind of contact with her. He wished he could see her sooner than Monday. Like tomorrow.

Or right now.

He laid back across his couch, tucking one hand under his head as he looked up at the ceiling. He was fairly certain that he had thought about a girl like this precisely zero times in his life before now. And it wasn't like he didn't get attention from girls. Even before Sparta, he'd gotten attention. Anytime he went around in his uniform he turned heads. It wasn't like he wasn't used to dealing with the opposite sex. Before "the incident", as he'd started to think of it, the one in Iraq that had taken Manny out of his life, he'd had a moderately active sex life. It wasn't like he was out banging a different chick every weekend. But there would be stretches where he'd start talking to a girl, for maybe a month or so, and they'd do what they did. Then he'd leave her, and he'd chill out on his own for a while until he met the next one.

But never in that time had he _ever_ been so preoccupied with one girl before. He generally just didn't get attached like that; it had always just been about the sex. But at some point between going in to Ft. Leavenworth, and coming out and going home with Brendan, and watching the way he and Tess were with each other - he'd decided unconsciously that he _wanted __that_. Bad. He wanted that trust, that bond, with a girl. He wanted to be able to play with her and have sex with her and make _love_ to her (yeah, he said it. So what.) and have a family and all that shit that he saw that Brendan had with Tess. And after having been around them for some weeks, Tommy had slowly and grudgingly come to understand that choice that Brendan had made so many years ago. It was Tess, and it wasn't just Tess. It was the ideal, the wish, the dream. He totally got it.

And now, he wanted it.

It didn't have to be Olivia, he told himself. Probably he was fixated on her because, well, she was the only girl he'd been around like this in so long. And she was obviously pretty and had a nice body, superb ass. He hadn't been having sex, hadn't had _any_ sex in well over a year and a half by now. That had to be part of this. Once again, he entertained the thought of going out to a bar and pulling some "strange" home for the night. It was probably just the sex that he needed. Yeah.

He closed his eyes, and imagined having sex with someone. Just some random chick whose name he might or might not come to find out. Maybe a blonde or something. Something that generally wasn't his type. Maybe a skinny chick or one of those ones with super athletic hard bodies. Totally opposite side of the spectrum that he normally went for. Because he didn't want to think about long dark hair. Deep, naturally tanned skin. A pretty, perfect little hourglass figure with a nice rack, a small waist and sweet round ass.

Pouty pink lips and pale, jade green eyes.

_Ah, fuck._ So much for that. Tommy popped his eyes open in annoyance as his dick immediately stood at attention. The point was to _not_ think about Olivia. He was trying to prove a point to himself - that it wasn't really about Liv. It was about the fact that he needed to fuck someone, and that someone could look in no way like her and he'd still be fine.

And then he pictured himself fucking the nameless skinny blonde, and his dick went back to sleep. Just like that.

_What. The fuck. _What was he supposed to do now? So, okay, he reasoned. The first step was probably to stop lying to himself. He was into Olivia, bad. That was that. And it wasn't just sex he wanted. He couldn't do the random girl thing anymore, ever again. He'd offered her help yesterday because it was the right thing to do, the nice and kind thing to do, but also because he cared a whole hell of a lot about her and felt this _thing_ deep down in his chest when he thought about making sure she was okay. He knew what it was like to do without - and then some. All those cold-ass winters in the Northwest with Ma, barely able to afford to keep the heat on so they usually kept it off to save money. Having to take showers at school in the locker room before he even went to class, because their water got cut off. And being reduced to eating peanut butter and jelly on Wonder bread for months at a time.

Tommy couldn't eat peanut butter and jelly to this day.

All those things initially had made him want to help her. But later on he'd noticed that _thing_ in his chest, the one that made him feel so angry with her father for letting her suffer like that, that made him so goddamn determined not to take her no for an answer and make damn sure of it that she was taken care of. Because he really, really cared. And he didn't know much about women, but he had extremely good people radar, and his was telling him that Olivia was feeling something for him too. It was so much in the way she looked at him, the way she helped him, the way she blushed around him. He wasn't wrong. He knew he wasn't. But he also knew that as long as he worked with her, and as long as she worked with Paddy, she would always hold him at arm's length for ethic's sake.

Fuck ethics.

He was thinking about all the unethical ways he would enjoy interacting with her when his phone rang, and he quickly snatched it up, wondering if his mind had managed to conjure up an actual phone call from her. He wanted _contact_ with her so fucking bad, his chest actually ached. Instead, his mind meanderings had conjured up someone else - his dad.

"Hey, Pop," he said when he connected the call. "What's up?"

"Just saw it, Tom," his father replied excitedly. "The commercial. You looked great! It was great."

"That's what I hear," Tommy murmured before he could stop himself.

"Who else didja talk to about it?"

"Uh, just people. From the gym," he said lamely. "What's up, Pop?"

"Well. I was callin' to tell you about that. And also, to let you know I'm going to confession tonight. At St. Mark's."

"Um, that's nice," Tommy said, trying to keep all the condescension out of his voice and wondering why he was being told this. "You gonna stay for mass too, or just go tomorrow?"

"I'm gonna stay. Listen, I called to tell you that because I wanted to invite you to come with me."

"Me?" Tommy exclaimed. "Go to confession?"

"What?" Paddy sounded a little defensive. "You're Catholic, aren't you? I was there the week after you were born and Father McLaren baptized you in the Trinity himself. And boy, you put up a fuss when that water hit your head."

"We all know I'm a cradle Catholic at _best," _Tommy said, "and worthy of excommunication at worst. C'mon, Pop, I ain't been to confession since I was seventeen with Mom. I don't - I don't do all that anymore. I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"Well, this may come as a shock, Tommy," Paddy said, "but there is no rhyme or reason with confession. You don't even have to say any of the rites. You can just go in and...talk. And the priest will forgive you. Absolve you, actually."

"Just like that, huh?" This time, Tommy did let the sarcasm in. "A regular man, just speaks for _God_ and abracadabra - I'm all better?"

"Tommy," Paddy said quietly, "you're on the verge of getting blasphemous here. You know like I know that the priest is ordained by God."

"Yeah, but how do we know that?" Tommy asked rhetorically. "'Cause from where I'm sittin', he's just a man. So God has time to bless a regular Joe with powers to wash away all my sin, but He kills my mom in the meantime? That's what God does?" He hadn't meant to go here with Paddy, but it seemed like once he started, he couldn't shut up.

"You can't blame God for Mom, Tommy," Paddy said, his gravelly voice still pitched low. Almost soothing - or it would have been, had it not been _Paddy Conlon _he was talking to.

"No, you're right," Tommy said. Then, before he could stop himself, he added, "I blame you." Instantly the line went silent, and Tommy squeezed his eyes shut. He cleared his throat. "Pop, uh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"I understand, son," Paddy said, and while Tommy believed him, he could also hear all the hurt in his voice. "I just hope one day you can forgive me for what I did. To your mother. To you boys."

"I want to, Pop," Tommy said sincerely. "I really, really mean that. I want to. And...I'm tryin'."

"Do you know what the Bible says about forgiveness, Tommy?" Paddy said. "As followers of Christ, we have to forgive each other for what we do to each other, because Christ forgave us. He forgave us by dying for us. And if He can forgive us for our sins, we have to be able to forgive each other." He paused. "I forgive you for that night in Atlantic City."

Tommy instantly knew which one he was talking about and fresh shame fell over him; because of him and his big, cruel, hurt mouth, Paddy had broken his almost one thousand-day sobriety and fallen _all_ the way off the wagon. But to hear Paddy reference it now, along with something so condescending as _I forgive you_ also made him mad.

"So, you forgive me," Tommy said dryly, "and, what? I'm supposed to say the three magic words to you now?"

"No," Paddy said, and he sounded drained. "I just want you to know that I forgive you." They both went silent for an extended pause. "The offer still stands if you want to come, Tommy. I'd love to have you. And I'd love for you to experience the kind of relief you get when you know you've been absolved for all your wrong-doings."

"My list is a little long for all that, Pop," Tommy said, and now he felt fucking drained, too. "But thanks anyway."


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Super feelsy chapter here guys, mentions of violence. You've been warned. Thanks for the reviews, and please let me know what you think of this one. xoxo**

**Chapter 21**

Olivia made it through Monday with about as much grace as most people who dearly, sincerely, truly and deeply loathed that day of the week. Sitting in Professor Katz's class had provided a minimum of discomfort, although there were several students who appeared to be quite unhappy with their quiz scores, the ones that Olivia had spent grading on Saturday. She shrugged inwardly. _If you'd stop sleeping, or texting, or sleeping and texting – however you accomplish that – you wouldn't be so mad, now would you?_

After class she did her normal routine, zooming home quickly to let Achilles out in the yard, give him a treat and a kiss, and head back to her office. On the way she lamented the fact that she would have loved a fruit smoothie, but she was broke, having spent all of her money to pay the collection agency a miserable fraction of what was actually owed.

Then she remembered that she had forty dollars in her wallet, and when she remembered where it came from, she blushed. Maybe she _could_ have that smoothie, after all.

She finally pulled into her office, determined to knock out those last three pages she'd planned to write by Sunday. It hadn't worked yesterday; she'd been too distracted and mentally burn out to do anything more than attend the early service mass, come back home and start an easy, heart crockpot meal made from this and that in her cupboards that she could eat on for the week, and sit down with a good book. Eventually she'd taken Achilles for another walk, and then come back to the house to drink iced tea and read and do more of nothing.

It had been nice. Or it would have, if her mind hadn't been occupied by the same subject it had been obsessing over since Friday. Okay, since, like…a few weeks.

She sat her desk now, finishing up the third page of her dissertation. It was at moments like these that her self-diagnosed ADHD kicked in. She knew what she wanted to say, and had literally only a paragraph left to write, but her mind was suddenly all, _just leave it for now and do something else and then come back and write it wait is that a new Victoria's Secret catalog in your bag or who's doing what on Facebook or what about that funny comic site that you like to read how about we do all those things and not write your paper?_ She shook her head and took a long drink of water, loosening up her shoulders. One more paragraph. _I got this. Let's go._

She wrote it, then sighed with relief and slumped over her desk, wrapping her arms around her head, realizing she only had about twenty more pages to write in the next couple months. Twenty pages of a dissertation stood between her and her doctorate degree. It was fucking surreal to wrap her mind around.

"Hey, Liv. You awake?"

Olivia snapped her head up as she heard Tommy's voice accompanied by the sound of his knuckles on her door frame. She couldn't hold back a smile when she saw him. He seemed to be dressing up more lately, she noticed, if dressing up for Tommy could be defined as jeans and a sergeant-style button down shirt and nice sneakers, instead of wind pants, cutoff T-shirts and running shoes. His hair, short on the sides and a little longer on top, looked a little mussed, but she suspected a handful of product swiped through his hair had created the look more than the wind had.

He looked gorgeous.

And based on the surge she felt her stomach at the sight of him, she was happy to see him. Like, really happy – almost as though she'd missed him over the weekend. On the tail end of that feeling came the guilt, like it always did. The fact that she'd identified that feeling as "missing" him was bad. It was very, very bad. She'd already been feeling bad enough for her attraction to him, her fantasies of him and other naughty thoughts she had had before. But in the wake of his indescribable kindness toward her, and the fact that they were still working through his _stuff_, she really needed to stop looking at him the way she was. The way she was doing right now, in fact.

And then there was the way that he was looking back at her. Right now. _Eep._

She tore her eyes from away from his as he sauntered into the office and sank down on the couch. She got up from her desk, and pointed at the little coffeemaker on the counter. "Coffee?"

She could see him consider it, then he shook his head. "Nah. It's five. I better not. I need to be able to sleep tonight."

"Gotcha." She gathered the skirt of her maxi dress in one hand as she moved carefully around the furniture to shut her office door. The chiffon material snagged so easily, as she knew from unfortunate personal experience, and the dress was one of her favorites. It had a slightly low neckline, but it wasn't inappropriate. The bodice was seamed with elastic at her natural waistline, so that the top bloused out a bit while the skirt skimmed her flat stomach and the curves of her hips and backside on the way down to the floor. It was very comfortable and it could be dressed up or down, depending on the accessories and shoes. She had, of course, dressed it down with a pair of camel-colored flat sandals with gold hardware, a delicate gold chain around her neck, gold knotted studs, and a slim, hammered gold ring on her index finger. She did her best to ignore the appreciative stare that Tommy was giving her as she sank into her chair, slipping her glasses onto her face and pulling her hair over one shoulder.

"You look nice today," he said in a low voice, and she glanced up at him over the edge of her glasses. "I like that dress. It matches your eyes. Perfectly."

His own smoky gray eyes had gone a little darker as he studied her, and Olivia swallowed hard, momentarily losing herself in the beautiful, symmetrical features of his face, the light stubble on his cheeks and chin, and his luscious, incredibly inviting mouth that she had almost gotten herself caught up in on Friday. She wished that he would stop looking at her the way he was; it was distracting, and completely arousing.

"Thank you," she said softly, and glanced down at her notepad. Today, she had a little exercise in mind for them to try – role play. She couldn't stop her own mind from going straight to the gutter with that one, but she knew that role play during counseling sessions had proved to be a useful tool. It allowed people to find better ways of communication, or to get out unresolved feelings and other anger. She hoped that both outcomes could be achieved today.

"So, I have an exercise for us to try today," she told him. "But first I wanted to see how you're doing. How your weekend was, how you're feeling regarding the fight tomorrow, any feelings of anxiety. Anything like that."

"Well," Tommy said slowly, "things have been a'right. I guess. I talked to my brother some today, and things are still going good there. Talked to Pop of course. Things kinda got tense with him on Saturday but we seem to be doing okay today. Had dinner with him at the house last night, and that was cool. Didn't get into anything heavy, just ate and watched a game. As far as the fight I definitely feel nervous. Not because of my physical ability – I feel great about that. I feel like if I only had to worry about that, the guy I'm fightin' tomorrow will be history. But I keep thinking about last time, you know? How I choked. Froze up."

"You didn't choke," Olivia reminded him gently. "You had a PTSD episode. That's not the same thing."

"Well, whatever you wanna call it," he replied. "I just don't need that to happen this time."

"What triggered it for you last time, specifically?" She held her pen above her notebook; this would be useful information about him going forward for the next therapist.

"I think...it started with the crowd," Tommy said slowly. "The noise. The screaming and shouting. It took me back to Iraq. And then right after I thought I'd won, a beam of light hit me in the eyes and it reminded me, I guess, of when they sent out the search-and-rescue after my unit – after the, um, the incident. I'd been hiding with Manny's body when it passed over my eyes. They were sort of far away. And they didn't see me get up and run away. I just started running."

"Well," Olivia said, gently steering the conversation back on course before he lost himself in Iraq again, "it seems that maybe this time should go a little easier for you. Do you think? That last fight was your first time out in well over a year. You were unfamiliar with the noise level, the lights, how things are set up. Now, you've got a pretty recent reference. You can start to condition your mind to understanding that it _is_ going to be loud, it _is_ going to be a little overwhelming at first, there _are_ going to be bright lights, things like that – remind yourself that you know what to expect. Remember that the stimuli cannot take you off guard. Put all of your focus on and into the fight. The movements with your body. Focus on your opponent and try to drown out all the extra noise. If you can just focus your mind that way, I think you'll be just fine. And remember to breathe, and remember that people who love you will be there. Your father, your brother."

"How'd you know they'd be there?" Tommy asked in surprise with a smile. "I know you haven't talked to my pops this week, since he comes to see you on Wednesdays."

_Shit. Dammit, Liv._ "I, uh – I just assumed," she said quickly. So apparently, Paddy had decided to _not_ come clean to Tommy and inform him that he'd invited her to attend. "I mean, your father is a given. He supports you fully, and he wants to see you do well with fighting. Your brother was just a guess, an assumption."

"Well, I wasn't really sure he was gonna be there, myself," Tommy said musingly. "But he called today to tell me that he's gonna be able to do it. So I'm really pumped about that. It means a lot to me to have him there. I always looked up to him, you know? I always wanted him to be proud of me. I think even more so than my dad, I always wanted my brother to be proud of me."

"You two had a bond," Olivia said with a nod. "It's totally understandable. You two had a bond during some of the hardest, most impressionable times in your lives. You were both on the same side of the battle, you got each other, you clung to each other. I'm not at all surprised to hear you say that. And I'm glad that you two are repairing your relationship."

"Yeah," Tommy said quietly, smiling a little down at his lap. "Me, too. I feel like I owe Bren a lot. He gave me a place to stay when I got outta the brig. He gave me a family. I went from havin' nothin' to havin' somethin'. And it's because that fucker refuses to give up on me." He laughed a little, and met her eyes with a sheepish look on his face. "Sorry about that."

Olivia smiled. "It's okay."

"As for your suggestions you just made about the fight, I can do all that. I just wish I could have a practice run with a crowd to make sure I can do that. It's sort of a one-time, one shot type thing though."

"I know you'll do great," Olivia said. "You want it badly, and you're determined."

"I do want it badly," he said quietly, and met her eyes with a piercing gaze that sent heat to bloom between her thighs and butterflies fluttering in her low belly. She knew he wasn't just talking about the fight. She looked down at her lap again, feeling her cheeks flush hot.

"Is there anything else you would like to talk about before we get started?" she asked, clearing her throat.

"Well, my manager told me that the guy that created Sparta, the one I'm tryin' to get to agree to put me on the roster again, he's gonna be there tomorrow," Tommy said. "I'm _really_ fuckin' nervous about that one."

"Same thing," Olivia said. "Treat it the same way as the crowd. Don't let the stimulus of 'one person' – I get he's a big-shot – throw you off your game or distract you. You're a great fighter, Tommy. Show him." She smiled encouragingly. "The same techniques to drown out everything while you do your thing will work here, too."

"Thanks," Tommy said quietly, giving her a half-smile.

"Anything else?"

"No. I'm good."

"Okay." Olivia stood up and carefully moved the coffee table out of the way, leaving the open space between the seats free and uncluttered. She glanced at him, and he looked surprised.

"What are we doin'?" he asked curiously.

Olivia pulled her chair a little closer to the couch. "We're going to try a technique called role-play," she said, and immediately flushed when Tommy's eyes opened wide, his brows lifting, and the corner of one mouth tugging upward. "Not that kind. Stop it."

"Sorry," he said, with a little grin. He cleared his throat. "Okay, I'm serious now."

"Okay." Olivia set her notepad on the floor and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "I'm going to be Paddy. I want you to close your eyes for a moment and take a really deep breath. Okay? Do that for me now, please." She was aware of the level of trust in her it required Tommy to be able to do this and as his eyelids fell shut she prayed she wouldn't let him down. She watched as he drew in a deep breath through his nose, his broad chest expanding, and then blew it out through his slightly pursed lips. She couldn't help staring at them for a second, and then quickly looked away when he opened his eyes.

"Now I want you to clear your mind, and think about your father. Think about your childhood. Think about the chunk of time when he wasn't in your life. Think about last year when you came back to Pittsburgh, and your relationship. Think about everything that you went through during the first tournament. Think about how things are right now. And when you look at me, I want you to picture him. I want you to speak through me to your father. Okay, Tommy? I'm not Liv anymore. I'm Paddy. I'm Pop. Can you try that for me?"

"Yeah," he said quietly, after a long moment of hesitation and a slightly skeptical look on his face. "Yeah, I can try that."

"Good." Olivia took her own silent, deep breath. "What would you like to say to Paddy, Tommy? What do you want to say to me?"

"I guess," Tommy muttered. He faltered for a moment. "I guess...I wanna say I'm sorry for what I said to you in AC. In the casino."

"We said so many things," Olivia said. "What are you talking about specifically?"

"When I said you were useless. When I said that Brendan and I both felt that way. Everything I said to you that night – callin' you an old man. Saying I liked you better as drunk. Callin' you a beggar." He paused and swiped a hand down his face, swallowing hard. "Tellin' you to get the fuck outta my face. Bein' the one to – bein' the one to drive you back to the bottle that night."

"What if I said I understood?" Olivia asked him evenly. "What if I said I completely understood your anger at me then, that it was justified, and that I was drowning in self-loathing?"

"I'd still say I'm sorry," Tommy said hoarsely. "I'd still apologize 'cause I didn't have to say that. You were trying, just like you told me, and I just shit all over it. I didn't have to be that way, I didn't have to give in to that anger _all the fuckin' time_. I didn't have to treat you like that. I coulda been there for you. We coulda sat and talked, maybe had a cup of coffee or somethin'. But I didn't. And I'm sorry."

It said so much to Olivia about Tommy's character that the first thing he would choose to say to Paddy, after being given his open-season pass to annihilate him, was an apology. "I forgive you," she said. "You're my son. I love you, and I forgive you. What else do you want to say to me? How do you feel about me these days?"

"Most days I like you," Tommy said, his eyes taking on a faraway look again. "Most days. Some days, I don't. Some days I hate you."

"What do I do on those days that you hate me?" Olivia asked quietly.

Tommy looked her in the eye, but she knew she wasn't the one he was seeing. "Exist."

Olivia drew in a breath. Now they were starting to get somewhere. "Would you rather I didn't exist sometimes?"

"Yes. Sometimes I wish it was you died of lung cancer and not Ma."

"Would it surprise you to know that sometimes I wish it was me and not Ma, too?"

"You robbed her," Tommy said, his voice not rising but growing emotional, "of a decent life. She wasted _years_ on you. Years. And when she finally got the fuckin' courage to walk away from you – she gets lung cancer and she fuckin' dies, in puddles of her own blood. And who was there to clean it up? To clean her up? To be there to take care of her when she was too sick to get out of bed? Who got three part-time jobs just to get some income when she couldn't work anymore? Who became the parent at the age of fifteen? Me, that's who. I did all that shit. I took care of my own mother when she was supposed to be takin' care of me. And she couldn't, because of _you_. I don't give a fuck that it was cancer that killed her in the end. You did that to her. She couldn't even go to the doctor by herself because you wouldn't let her. Because you thought she was fuckin' other men when you weren't around. Guess what, Pop? She wasn't! She was devoted to your fucked up, abusive ass even though she hated you. Did you know that, Pop? Did you know that your wife hated your fuckin' guts but still loved you enough to stick it out for years? You robbed her of the prime of her life!" Tommy broke off, his chest heaving with rage as he stared at the floor.

"I know I did," Olivia said, making her voice low and soothing. "I know I did. But, Tommy, I wasn't myself back then. I was a severe alcoholic. Half the time I didn't even know what was going on. I didn't always know what I was doing." Olivia was using Paddy's own words that he told her in their sessions; for once, in this situation, sessions with both father and son were really coming in handy.

"Bullshit," Tommy said bitterly. "That mighta been true once or twice. But you and I both know that you knew what you were doing most of the time, even when you were drunk as fuck. You knew. And you know what the worst part is? You liked it. You liked asserting your 'manliness' over your woman. You know how I know that? Because sometimes when you'd be beating her ass, you'd look over at me and Bren and shout, 'Take notes, boys! This is how you keep a bitch in line!' You thought you were teaching us this shit, teaching us how to be men!"

For a moment, Olivia didn't know what to say in reply. Tommy was sharing things with her that she hadn't known before. Paddy had always admitted to being a drunkard and a cheater and even an abuser, but he'd never gone into detail the way Tommy was right now. And she knew it was because he was haunted by it, haunted by his shame that would never, ever leave him, not with a thousand absolutions from a thousand priests after a thousand confessions. Not even with his own sons telling him they forgave him. The ghost of Esther Conlon would haunt him forever, along with the ghosts of his actions.

"I was wrong," Olivia said finally, after giving herself a swift mental kick in the ass to get out of her stupor. "I was wrong. I might have known what I was doing, but that doesn't mean I was in my right mind, Tommy. I would never do that again."

"Yeah, you better not," Tommy said angrily. "That new girlfriend of yours. Cathy. She ain't Ma but she's a nice lady, and I'll be damned if you put her through the same shit you did to Ma. I'll kill you before I see you treat another human being like that again."

"I'm not the same man, Tommy," Olivia said softly. "I've seen the error of my ways. I've seen what I did to you and your brother and your mother. And I regret it all deeply. I'm sober now. And I love you and I want to be the father to you now that I never was before. I know I broke your heart and your spirit once, Tommy, but I would never do that again. I could never hurt you."

"That's hilarious," Tommy said darkly. "You could never hurt me." He suddenly held up his right hand, the one with the crooked pinky. "How in the fuck do you think my hand got like this? Huh? You think I rammed this shit in a car door or something?"

Olivia was taken aback. She had always assumed his crooked pinky finger had been the result of an old injury relating to fighting or wrestling. _Paddy did that to him? _"It was an accident," Olivia said slowly, hoping against hope she was right. "It was an accident, son. I'd never intentionally –"

"Bullshit!" The force of Tommy's roar made her jump sharply and left her speechless. She actually felt slightly intimidated by the amount of rage he had coursing through his body, but she forced it aside and sat still. "Bullshit! You did hurt me! You did this to me!"

"Remind me," she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "Remind me how I hurt you."

"It all started one night when you were beating Ma's ass," Tommy said, then laughed bitterly. It was a sound that made her want to clap her hands over her ears; it was so ugly. "So many of our stories start that way, don't they? 'One night when Paddy was beating Esther's ass.' You were pissed off at Ma because she caught you cheating on her a-_fucking_-gain. Lipstick on the collar. Really, Pop? You couldn't even bother to be more careful or change your shirt or some shit? If you couldn't keep your own fucking dick in your pants or in your _wife _where it belonged the least you could do was not flaunt it in front of her fuckin' face, right? You came home drunk and freshly fucked by another broad, and Ma caught you, knew just where you'd been and who you'd been with and what you'd done. And she lost it – yelled at you, cried. Finally gave into the pain you'd caused her for so many years, and like most men who get caught red-fucking-handed, instead of being a man and owning up to your behavior and groveling at her fuckin' feet, you got pissed off and you fucking hit her. Smacked her to the floor. But you didn't stop there, did you? No, you had to get on top of her and choke her out with one hand while you fucking threw hammers into her face. You know that your fist feels exactly like a hammer when you hit someone? Or, well, it did." Tommy was glaring at the floor, but he smirked contemptuously at the last part. "And she kept screamin' and cryin' and begging you to stop, when she could get air to breathe, that is, and you just kept fuckin' hittin' her. And I was in the living room and heard everything, and that was the night I finally grew a pair of fuckin' balls and I thought to myself, 'I'm gonna save Ma tonight, finally.' Do you know how long I'd been wantin' to save her from you? Save my beautiful, loving mother from you, the _monster_? And that was gonna be the night. So I go into the kitchen and I see you on top of Mom and I swear to fuckin' Christ I will never forget what that looked like or how fuckin' scared I felt, and I charged you like a little ass bull and I got between you and her. In my mind you were never gonna lay another fuckin' hand on her. And I grabbed your hand, and I grabbed your finger. I wanted to break your fuckin' finger, I wanted to cause you as much pain as I knew how at that time. And you flung my ass across the room, and you got off Ma and came over to me and you yelled, 'Were you just tryin' to break my fuckin' finger, boy? That ain't how you break someone's finger. I'll show you how to break someone's finger!'"

Olivia's stomach flipped over, and she wanted to beg him to stop. She didn't want to hear what was going to come out next. She didn't think she could handle it.

"And you grabbed my hand, and you wrapped your entire hand around my pinky and you fucking _broke_ my fucking _finger_." Tommy's voice dripped disgust and anguish, and Olivia couldn't stop herself from clapping a hand over her mouth and squeezing her eyes shut. "You broke my fucking finger, and then you went back and you _still_ beat Mom bloody. That was one of the worst times. And Brendan didn't know what to do. He hid. He thought he was next. I remember he told me that night he thought you were killing us." Tommy held up his hand again, trying to straighten out the pinky, and couldn't. "Ma couldn't even take me to the doctor to get the nerve damage fixed. You know that my pinky woulda been just fine if I coulda just had that surgery? But no. She was beaten so fuckin' bad and was so broke because you never gave her any money that she couldn't take me to get it fixed. And this is what happened." He held up his hand again.

Olivia swallowed several times. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Tommy. I'm sorry I was that man, that monster, that did that to you. I'm sorry that I put you through that. You were a teenager, at a really vulnerable age, and –"

"Teenager?" Tommy's eyebrows shot straight up, and his eyes opened wide, and he stared right through her. "_Teenager_?" Suddenly, Tommy lunged off the sofa at her, scaring her half to death, and grabbed her by her arms. "I wasn't a fucking teenager!" he bellowed. "I was nine! _Nine!"_ He gripped her arms hard and shook her, then slammed her back into the chair she was sitting in, which wasn't very hard because she was sitting down, but it terrified her nonetheless. "I was nine years old, you miserable, violent _fuck!"_

_Time to stop_.

Olivia managed to lift her hands and clapped them together, twice, sharply. "Tommy." She made her voice equally sharp, though she felt like a boneless, quivering pile of flesh.

He suddenly released her, blinking. He met her gaze for a beat, and then his face crumpled in agony. He stumbled back, missing the cushion, and landed on his backside on the floor, his back against the front of the couch. He stretched his long, powerful legs out in front of him, buried his face in his hands, and broke down.

For a moment, Olivia stared at him, her mind whirling in a thousand different directions. She'd been absolutely terrified that he was going to strike her; apparently, the role-play technique had worked too well. But now, as she watched him sprawl against the sofa, his shoulders wracked with sobs, and a heartbroken, choking sound coming from him, she wanted to cry with him. Her chin trembled slightly and her eyes burned, but she took a brief moment to suck down some deep breaths to regain control of herself. Right now, she told herself, he was her patient. And no matter how badly he'd scared her a second ago, he was in horrible pain. She needed to talk him through it.

"Tommy," she said quietly from the chair. "Tommy."

It was as if he couldn't hear her.

She got up shakily from the chair, her knees wobbly, and made her way to the sofa. She perched on the edge of it, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He immediately recoiled, lifting his tear-streaked face to stare at her. "Tommy," she said, unable to keep her voice from shaking. "Tommy, it's just me. It's Liv. Okay? It's just me. Paddy's gone."

Suddenly, Tommy's arms were around her waist, his face pressed against her abdomen, and his body shook. Olivia froze, shocked and unsure what to do. _This is so not in the code of ethics,_ she thought frantically. _He's not supposed to be touching me, oh God, what do I do? _

And then she put her arms around him, and gripped his shoulders tight.

It was as if her natural instincts, not her training, took over. This was another human being in front of her, one that was in unimaginable pain, and he was indirectly begging for mercy. For grace. For help. And her heart went out to him, and she hugged him close, leaning her head down to rest on top of his, smelling the clean and sweet fragrance of his shampoo and hair gel clinging to his hair.

"Shh," she murmured, one of her hands sliding to his stubbly cheek. She could feel moisture there. "Shh, Tommy. It's all right. It's just me. Okay? You're gonna be okay, and I'm gonna make sure of it." She slipped her arms around his head until she was cradling it tenderly, and she couldn't stop herself from lightly brushing his forehead with her lips. "It's okay. You're good. Right? You're okay." She found that she was actually _rocking _him, the way that her mother had once done to her when she'd needed comfort shortly before Yessenia had died. She heard Tommy clear his throat, and stiffen a little, as though he'd realized what had happened and what he'd been doing, and was embarrassed. She felt his arms loosen from her waist.

The last thing she wanted was for him to feel embarrassed for his emotions. She refused to let that happen. She took a moment to get up from the couch and grab some tissues from the box on the coffee table that was pushed to the side, and returned to sit back down, noting that he was now sitting on the couch as well and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hand. She handed him the tissues, looking at him head-on. As she knew he would, he wouldn't look her in the eye, his cheeks reddening, and took the tissues from her with a silent nod and began to clean his face. Olivia glanced down, seeing wet marks on the front of her dress, and didn't care.

"Tommy, look at me," she said softly. His eyes briefly flicked in her direction, and then fell to his lap again. She reached out, lightly touching his chin with her fingertips, and guided his head to look at her. _Just breakin' all kinds of rules tonight, aren't we_, she thought sarcastically. "Tommy. Look at me."

Finally he did, and she saw embarrassment and shame on his face. "I'm sorry I put my hands on you, Liv. I – I thought –"

"You thought I was Paddy," she said calmly. "That's exactly what was supposed to happen. I wanted you to get that shit _out_, Tommy. We need to let that poison _out_. And you did that tonight. I don't care what you did – you got it out."

"Some of it, maybe," he said quietly.

"It's a triumph, anyway," Olivia said fiercely. "Listen to me, Tommy Conlon. Paddy, the man – the monster – he was back then will never, ever hurt you. Ever again. You know why? One, because he _can't_. He can't physically hurt you any more, ever again, because you're grown. You're big, and strong, and tough, and capable. He – no one – has the power to hurt you, ever. And you know why else he's not going to hurt you? Because he loves you." Tommy met her gaze finally, and she held onto it. "He loves you for you. He loves you because of this." She placed her hand on his chest over his heart. "_This_ means everything to him. And he will protect it with everything he's got. He can't hurt you anymore, Tommy, and he _wouldn't_ hurt you anymore. He loves you, and Brendan, and your sister-in-law, and the girls _so much_. You have no idea how much he loves you. Especially you. This –" she poked his chest "– this is absolutely safe with him now. You just have to let him. He can love you past that pain, Tommy, I know he can. You have got to let all this poison drain out, for both your sakes. I know you love your father. And I know that all you've wanted all these years was your father – the one that loves you and supports you and cares about you and wants you to be happy. The guy you never had growing up. But I'm telling you, Tommy – you've got him now. And I'm saying this because I need you to believe it so you can forgive, and heal, and move on, with that father that you always wanted. Not for anyone else. For you."

She felt tears working up in her throat again, and she breathed hard and fast as she looked into his eyes. He was listening to her, she could tell. He was listening intently, and watching her, and it was sinking in. Her hand, she realized, had fallen from his chest to his knee, and she pulled it back slowly. At the same time, she suddenly felt his hand cover hers.

"Why are you so..." he trailed off, and she stared at him in surprise. Had she made things worse somehow? "...fuckin' amazing," he finished softly. He captivated her gaze with his, powerful and deep, and she felt the air between them grow warm.

_Oh, shit,_ she thought desperately, knowing that a repeat of Friday evening, except a thousand times more powerful, was happening again. This time, she didn't think she had the strength to move away. His face had softened, the tears dried, and something hot and hungry and _needy_ came into his eyes. She watched as his tongue swept out between his lips, felt the powerful magnetic pull of them.

She tore her gaze away and abruptly rose to her feet. "Do you need water?" she asked hoarsely. Without waiting for an answer she pulled two bottles from her work satchel, and tossed him one. She gave him her back while she drained half her bottle, her insides quivering with need, anticipation and intensity. Finally she turned around, and found him on his feet behind her, one hand holding the bottle and the other hand deep inside his pocket. He looked at her, and his expression was so sweet and wistful that she could have cried – the instant before she flung herself at him.

"I gotta go," he said quietly, practically a whisper.

"Yeah." Olivia nodded. "You have a big day tomorrow."

Tommy just nodded. He looked at her, and Olivia's knees shook again. "Thank you," he said. "I just – thank you. I'll – I'll call later and make an appointment. I need some time to think about – things."

Olivia nodded. "Take as much time as you need," she said, feeling her heart start to thud. When he'd gone, she collapsed into her chair again, her legs finally giving out. It was by far the most grueling session she'd ever had, and it left her mind spinning rapidly, confusedly. And above all else, her stomach was knotted and tense with the fear that she was falling – hard – for a man she was also trying desperately to save.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: My Muse is going INSANE here, guys. And you're welcome. Enjoy! xoxo**

**Chapter 22**

In the bathroom of the little dressing room in the West Track Club on Tuesday evening, Tommy lay on his back with his feet against the wall, quiet and thinking. Not about his upcoming fight, but about the last twenty-four hours. Because it was _all_ he could think about.

He was still reeling from his session with Olivia yesterday. He had, at first, felt weird doing her little exercise "role play" thing, and hadn't really known where to start or what to say. And when he'd gotten started, he'd begun to feel less weird, and more pissed. And it had snowballed from there, until there was no longer a pretty brunette in a green dress in front of him; she became the version of Paddy he remembered from his childhood. Younger-looking, less weathered, but with that same raspy voice, destroyed from decades of booze and cigarettes. And Tommy had un-fucking-leashed. It had felt good for a while, just letting all the shit out, telling Liv-as-Paddy, who at some point became just Paddy, all about how fucked up he'd been to the family for years. But then Liv-as-Paddy had gotten one fact wrong, the fact that Paddy had broken his finger not as a teenager but as a little boy, and that error had enraged him beyond anything he'd ever felt before. He was pretty sure he'd blacked out at that point, only coming back to himself at the sound of Olivia saying his name sharply. He'd realized he was gripping her arms and she looked terrified, and for a moment he'd had no clue what he'd done.

And then the levy broke, and years of repressed emotion, pain, anger and hatred like he'd never felt before right then came pouring out of him. He'd felt like he was on the verge of a fucking heart attack, or a nervous breakdown, or something equally as fucked up. He'd been totally overwhelmed, totally lost.

And then she was there, right next to him.

When he'd felt that first light touch on his shoulder, he hadn't known who was touching him. He was so fucked up, he actually thought that it was Paddy for a second, but then he'd looked up and he'd seen that it was her, and she looked so sweet and concerned and terrified and sad, but she'd said, so gently, "Tommy. It's me, it's Liv. You're okay" and it had both broken and restored his heart at the same time and before he knew what he was doing, they were wrapped up in each other's arms together on her little sofa, and she was rocking him – _rocking_ him – and murmuring soothing, calming things to him, things he couldn't remember now but he could still hear the sound of her voice next in his ear.

He was pretty sure of two things. Well, three. The first was that he was certain that she'd kissed him on the forehead; he'd felt two soft fleshy things against the hot skin of his head and even in that turmoil he couldn't believe it. The second was that this was the first time where he had ever just _bared_ himself to someone before, and he'd made it out alive – maybe not unscathed – but alive nonetheless, and that was a fucking miracle. He'd hardly known how to face her afterward, feeling embarrassed and like a huge pussy, but she'd touched his face and made him look at her – much like he'd done to her on Friday – and she'd told him beautiful things, things that he could tell she really meant because she was getting all worked up and she kept touching his chest where his heart was and her eyes kept filling with tears.

And the third thing, he thought, still lying on the floor with his bare feet against the tiled wall, thinking of her pale green eyes huge and wide and glistening, was that after _all_ of that, him unleashing, him scaring the fucking shit out of her, her comforting him and saying those things and getting emotional because of _him_ – the third thing was that he was pretty sure he could fall in love with her.

If he hadn't already. He wasn't sure.

After the session with Olivia, Tommy had gone home and straight to bed. He hadn't fallen asleep right away, though; his mind wouldn't let him. He noticed he felt immeasurably lighter after the session. Granted he knew he hadn't said any of those things to Paddy himself, but it didn't really matter. This morning, he knew and he believed that it didn't matter. Paddy as he was now would still never be able to comprehend fully the damage that he'd done to him, to Brendan – even to Mom. To unleash on Paddy the way he had last night with Olivia – provided Tommy could even muster up that kind of strength a second time, which was doubtful – would only cause more damage. Paddy would be damaged because as he was now, he wouldn't be able to withstand the onslaught of Tommy's pain. And Tommy would be further damaged because he knew that Paddy would never understand it. And all he wanted, now, was to be understood.

The past couldn't be undone. Mom couldn't be brought back to life, the beatings couldn't be taken back, the yelling, the shouting, the fear, the anger, the constant feeling of living with a time bomb, the betrayal, the pain – none of it could be taken back or erased. It all happened, the damage was all done, and now all Tommy wanted was to have that damage understood. He felt like if he could be heard – in and of itself a weird fucking thing to want, since previously he hadn't even wanted to _talk_ about any of it – and if he could be understood, that would help him start to heal. He already knew that Paddy was sorry. He knew that Paddy wanted to be forgiven, and he also knew that Paddy would never, ever be that kind of man again. He knew this as certainly as he knew the sky was blue.

But Paddy didn't understand how Tommy felt about what he'd done to him, and that was what made the forgiveness so hard. Because, how could he forgive someone for something they weren't even fully aware that they'd done?

But Olivia got it. She understood them both, and even though he knew that the real Paddy would never know or understand, _someone _in this fucking world now did, and that helped. Tremendously.

He wasn't entirely sure where this sort of insight had come from, other than the fact that he had not. Been able. To stop. Fucking thinking. All night. When he was supposed to be sleeping, resting up for the fight he was about to have, he had lain awake, just _thinking_. It was one of the first real times he could remember being alone with his thoughts.

He'd wondered last night and early this morning if being around Pop was going to be awkward. While Tommy was surprised at the level at which his thoughts were currently operating on, and the emotional clarity about himself that he was having, he wasn't at all willing to give himself the credit for treating Paddy like everything was hunky dory. It wasn't. But, he'd surprised himself yet again; when Paddy had shown up in the late afternoon to take him to the West Track Club, with that genuinely happy smile on his face, excitement flowing around him at the fight, and the commercial, and how shit was just going so fucking great. It had cooled that fire in Tommy's heart, had deadened the angry words, the cool stares, the sullen silence he had assumed he'd be dishing out.

Right now, for today, anyway, they were just father and son. Hanging out.

After he'd gotten settled in the closet that passed for his "dressing room" at the club, Paddy had taken him out to eat, and lo and behold, Brendan had already been there. Seeing Brendan had filled Tommy with this other weird feeling, like a desperate need to be around his big brother. He thought it was a holdover from all the emotions of last night. Remembering the beatings, the violence, the absolute terror. When Pop and Ma had gotten to arguing, little Tommy had always been so frightened he'd hide under his bed. And Brendan would join him, bringing a flashlight and his comic books, and his favorite G.I. Joe action figure that he would let Tommy hold only on nights like that. And he would read the comics to Tommy, and sometimes he would even sneak cookies. And the two brothers, the two little boys, would huddle together under Tommy's bed, sometimes Brendan's, and offer each other comfort in the only way little boys could on those horrible, horrible nights.

And right then, in that restaurant, Tommy had really, really needed his big brother again.

Brendan's eyes had gone wide with surprise and his breath had been shoved out of his lungs against the force of Tommy's hug, but he'd hugged him back just as hard. "Hey, little bro. Doin' okay?"

"Yeah," Tommy said, stepping back and clearing his throat. "Yeah. It's just been a rough couple days, you know? I'm glad to see you. Glad you're here."

"Well, be lucky it's _you_," Brendan said teasingly. "Anybody else, Tess was about to kick my ass for havin' two four-hour trips back and forth in the same week. Then again, she's excited to get to go out and party this weekend, so I think that helped."

"Aw, tell her I'm sorry," Tommy said. He managed a crooked grin. "Sorry to be so needy."

"No," Brendan said, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "All seriousness, I woulda moved heaven and earth to be here. I got a feelin', Tommy, this time, this one's yours. I know it. I feel like – you're different today."

"Different how?" Tommy let Brendan steer him back toward the booth he'd gotten, with Paddy trailing behind.

"I dunno. Your energy's different." Brendan smiled at him and gave him a hard noogie. "In a good way. A real good way. You find a girl or somethin'?"

"Dammit, Bren," Tommy growled, ducking out from under his brother's arm. "And. Uh. No. Not really."

"What?" Brendan's eyes got keen with interest. "That means yes. Who is she?"

Tommy glanced over his shoulder. "Not in fronta Pop," he said quietly under his breath. "Maybe we'll talk later." Maybe Brendan could give him some advice; Tommy considered himself pretty much helpless in his current predicament. Brendan was, after all, the happily married man. To his high school sweetheart, no less.

"Cool," Brendan had said with a nod. Then, a little more loudly, "How 'bout some grub? I'm starvin'. Pop?"

Now, Brendan and Pop were sitting on the old worn couches just outside the bathroom. They knew by now that Tommy liked a little privacy before a fight. And speaking of. He'd better start focusing his mind toward that. He'd watched some of the footage that Colt had given him on his opponent. He was a middleweight from Jersey named Davey Bonetti. And he was a little beast, Tommy had to give him that. He'd been defeated only a couple times among his twenty-four fights. He was looking to go to Sparta, too.

Like Tommy had been at the first Sparta tournament, Davey had a rep for being a "one-hitter quitter". Of the footage he'd watched, Davey had knocked out at least fourteen opponents. It made Tommy smile. This was one knock-out Davey wasn't going to get. And damn sure not a win.

He felt ready. Really ready to fight this kid. And while he was still a little bit nervous about how he'd react once he got out there, amid the lights and noises and music and shit, he'd been trying to focus on what it all sounded like last time, and had even spent some time at home shining a flashlight in his face briefly. Just to see. It had been dumb, but it hadn't triggered any memories for him. So, maybe he'd be okay after all. Liv knew what she was talking about; Tommy had faith in that.

Damn. Now he was thinking of her again, when he needed to be focused on the fight. But he really sort of wished she could be here. He'd have liked for her to see him in action. Real action, not the practice sparring he did at the gym. Besides, she was usually so busy cleaning that he was sure she never paid attention to anything else anyway. He didn't really know why he wanted her to see him fight so much, other than it might give her some more insight as to who he was as a person. He frowned. Whatever. That was probably dumb. Maybe it was that fighting was his element, like psychology was hers. And even though he'd been on the receiving end, he'd seen her in her element. And even at his most fucked up, he was impressed by how smart and insightful she was, how well she knew her shit. And how caring. That was her element.

_And what's yours?_ he taunted himself. _Beating the shit out of guys?_ Yeah. Definitely dumb.

Finally he sighed and got up off the floor, stretching a little, and padded back into his dressing room. Five minutes to show time. He walked up on Brendan and Paddy looking like they were in the midst of an important conversation.

"…think it's really a good idea to have her here if he doesn't know?" Brendan was saying, then snapped his head up as he saw Tommy approach. "Hey, bro. You good? You ready?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Tommy said with a nod as he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. "What were you talking about? Who's here? Who doesn't know what?"

"Just talkin' about this weekend," Paddy chimed in, slowly getting to his feet. "Talkin' about maybe settin' up Frank with one of Tess's girlfriends. Brendan don't think it's a good idea, though."

"Yeah, I don't think he's the kinda guy who likes surprises," Brendan said in a rather sharp tone of voice, shooting Paddy a look.

Tommy shrugged. "Well, no big deal. It ain't like the guy looks like Gollum. I'm pretty sure he can find his own chicks."

Brendan looked at him in amazement. "You read 'Lord of the Rings'?"

Tommy flushed and glanced away. "Read 'The Hobbit'. Watched the movies."

"Huh." Brendan gave him a "will wonders never cease" look that normally Tommy would have found condescending and insulting, but then again, Tommy knew his overall appearance didn't scream "fantasy nerd". He let it go.

"Whatever. C'mon. I'm ready to get this going."

At that moment Colt burst into his dressing room. "There's my champ!" he exclaimed, jogging over and gripping Tommy's shoulders. "How you feelin', bro?"

"Good," Tommy said firmly, looking him right in the eye. "Real good. Make sure you tell Riley that, too."

"Yeah, yeah," Colt said enthusiastically. "Sure will. Listen, Tommy – just don't knock this kid out too fast, okay?" He threw some pretend, playful jabs at him. "Give 'em all a show, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Wait," Brendan said. "Riley? As in, J.J. Riley? He's here?"

"Yeah," Tommy said, and nodded at Colt. "Says he came down from A.C. just to watch me. Says after I win – if I win – my unofficial spot on the Sparta roster gets bumped up to official."

"J.J. Riley," Brendan said to Colt skeptically, "came from A.C. to watch Tommy fight, to confirm his spot on the Sparta roster?"

"Man likes to see things for himself," Colt replied. "Don't worry about that. Tommy, you just do what you do, what I know you can do, and everything is gonna be fuckin' golden, right?" He leaned over and gave Paddy a playful nudge in the ribs. "Right, Pops? Tommy's gonna murder this kid."

"He'll do just fine," Paddy said gravely.

At that moment, Tommy heard the first strains of music from the interior of the club. It sounded like "B.M.F." by Rick Ross, if he wasn't mistaken. Must be Bonetti's walk-out music.

Colt turned to him, excitement in his eyes, and grabbed his shoulders again. "You fuckin' _got this, _Tommy!" he said intensely. "I know it. Let's go fuckin' get it! Brendan, Pops – come on. Walk out together."

And so, as "Bulls on Parade" once again boomed through the speakers, Tommy walked out toward the cage, slowly moving through the crowd, with Colt and Brendan flanking him and Paddy bringing up the rear. Tommy kept his head down and his hands shoved in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. The hood he was wearing obscured his eyes, which he was glad for. He didn't want to be distracted by the crowd. Hearing them was more than enough.

He drowned them out and yanked his hoodie off when he reached the steps, handing it to Brendan. His brother caught his gaze and nodded once, firmly. Tommy returned the nod and glanced at Paddy.

"Get 'em, boy," Paddy said, reaching out to clasp Tommy's shoulder.

"You got this, champ!" Colt added. "Remember what I said – don't knock him out too fast. Give 'em a show!"

Tommy turned and bounded up the steps, and fixed his eyes on his opponent. In person, he could see that even though Davey looked small on-screen, he was a true middleweight. He was a little shorter than Tommy, but had a very impressive build, solid and stocky, and Tommy knew the kid was fast. Granted, if Davey had done his homework, he would also know that Tommy was fast, too. Davey smirked at him from across the ring before popping in his mouth guard. The expression warmed Tommy's heart; it meant he was cocky. That cockiness was probably based off of Tommy's performance the last time. And if that was the case – good. If son over there in the corner was cocky, it meant he was sure to be sloppy, too. Tommy bit back his own smirk, and shoved his mouth guard in.

The ref brought them together in the middle and went over the rules, which by now Tommy was familiar enough with that he drowned them out and met Davey stare for stare. He could tell the kid was trying to intimidate him, which was funny. Really fucking funny. He allowed himself a brief moment to tune the crowd back in, and his nerves didn't react at all to the noise. So far, so good. He needed to be careful and stay focused.

"Go to war!" the ref bellowed, and jogged back out of the way.

Tommy calmly eyed Davey as they slowly circled each other. He operated best on a defensive platform, waiting for his opponent to strike first. And if Davey had studied film on that, he would know that. So the best way to catch him off guard was to go on the offensive.

He dodged in, lightning fast, feinting to the right. Davey fell for it, and Tommy ducked underneath the swing of his arm to deliver a crippling kidney shot before sweeping out of the way, alert as a tiger. Davey's right knee buckled a little and his face crumpled. Tommy knew he could have ended it there, and easily, but he remembered Colt telling him not to knock him out too fast. To put on a show. For J.J. Riley, most of all.

Tommy waited patiently for Davey to get his bearings, and to the kid's credit, it didn't take long. Davey looked furious, and rushed him. Tommy accepted the powerful strike to his shoulder as he ducked, and dug his heels in to avoid the force of it sending him off his feet. _It's okay, _he thought to himself. _He can have that_. Because in reply, Tommy delivered a kidney shot to the other side, plus a knee to the stomach, and then finished it off with a sharp, hard strike right to middle of his face.

Davey's head snapped back, blood flew, and the crowd roared. Tommy made himself take it all in. _Still okay._

Davey all but toppled over onto his ass. When he righted himself, Tommy was right on top of him. He struck Davey in rapid succession in his abdomen, actually hearing the kid's grunts of pain, then swung an elbow to his temple. He launched a roundhouse kick to his kidney again, but at the last second, Davey surprised the hell out of him by grabbing his foot and flipping him.

The crowd went insane.

_No problem_, Tommy assured himself as he turned the flip into an agile roll to his feet. _Still good. Nice move, you fucking snot-nosed bastard_.

Still in a crouch, Tommy shifted his weight to his hands and swept out his leg in a graceful arc, smoothly knocking Davey's feet out from under him. Tommy was actually annoyed he'd been able to do that; his opponent should have been out of reach. Then again, Tommy was fast as shit; he wouldn't have had a chance anyway.

Tommy rolled on top of him, sat on his chest and pinned Davey's arms with his knees, and rained down blows until the ref came to pull him off. He made them reset. By now, Davey had a bloody nose and his left eye was swollen almost shut. Tommy spared a glance toward his small group. Brendan was grinning ear to ear, and Pop had a small, proud smile on his face. He glanced at Colt, who grinned and shrugged as if to say, _You've held on long enough._

Tommy turned around to finish it off, and was caught off guard when he felt a fist slam under his chin. The crowd was deafening.

He stumbled back several feet, wanting to go down but refusing to do so, tasting blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten the shit out of his tongue. Fury flamed in his chest suddenly, and glowered at Davey. It was over.

He shuffled in close, ducked a swinging left hook, and came up sharp and close right against his side. He caught Davey's eye the instant before he was on the attack; he landed stomach, lung and kidney shots, a sharp elbow to the solar plexus, a knee to the stomach. When Davey doubled over, Tommy swung his leg and brought it hard against the back of his knees, making him topple over forward, and then brought his knee up again directly into the center of Davey's face.

Without another word or glance, Davey fell over, and Tommy could practically see the stars circling his head.

He was still wary, though; this had been the point last time at which it had all gone to shit. Tommy kept his eyes down, keeping Davey in his peripheral in case he wanted to get back up and go for some more, and kept moving around the ring. The ref started counting out the seconds, and Tommy barely heard when he counted out all ten seconds with Davey still on his back. He was only aware of the ref grabbing his arm and yanking it up, and the crowd went crazy some more, and they started playing his song again. Below, he saw Brendan and Colt losing their shit, and Paddy's smile had stretched into a grin. It looked like he was laughing happily.

He caught Tommy's eye and nodded. _Proud of you,_ he mouthed.

Despite everything – today, last night, the past thirty years – Tommy still felt the glow of a job well done, and praise from his father.

He jogged down the stairs, ready to get away from the crowd now. He felt incredibly amped up, and he wasn't sure how to process how he was feeling – it was a weird mix of triumph, pride, anger, violence. He barely registered the walk, the hurried walk, back to his dressing room. Brendan's arm was firmly around his shoulders, Colt tightly flanking his other side, and Paddy was walking fast behind them.

When they reached the door to his dressing room, Tommy grabbed the handle, pushing the door open a little, and waved off the sweatshirt that Brendan tried to hand back. "I need a minute," he said in a low voice. "Okay? Let me get a minute by myself."

Brendan studied his face, nodding slowly. "Sure, you got it, Tommy. You okay, though?"

"I think so," Tommy replied, his voice still low. "I just need a sec to myself."

"Tommy! Tommy Conlon!"

Tommy peered around Brendan and saw one of the sports reporters hurrying toward him, and grabbed Colt's arm. "Colt, deal with that," he said. "I need to go inside, I need a minute to myself. You handle that guy, and make sure he doesn't bother Pop or Brendan. Okay? I don't want my family bothered."

"Sure, you got it, bro," Colt said, smacking the side of his arm. "No worries. You go in there and chill out for a bit, okay? I got this. I'll take your dad and brother to grab some water or something in the meantime. We'll be back. Okay?"

Tommy nodded and slipped inside the room, turning to shut and lock the door. He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, feeling that level of super-amped-upness start to leave him. He needed some water, he needed to sit down and chill out for a second, and he needed a shower. Then, and only then, could he let it all sink in. He turned around, and froze.

Olivia stood at the back of the room, behind the sofas, watching him uncertainly. For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

Finally, she spoke. "I, uh –" she started, her eyes going wide as she looked at him. He realized vaguely that he must look scary, because he _was_ still pumped up. He just looked at her. She tried again. "I hope you're not mad," she said, and her voice shook a little. "Your dad, he asked me to be here, in case – in case you needed some help after. In case you had an episode. He only did it out of concern for you, Tommy, so please – don't be pissed at him."

He should be pissed. Probably. He should be annoyed at the very least. More conspiring, even if it was for his good. Yeah, he should probably be mad.

But all he could think of was that Olivia was standing in front of him in ripped up jeans, and a sheer flowing sleeveless top, and he could smell her sweet, clean fragrance, and it was making him _fucking _crazy, and this time, he wasn't holding back.

He crossed the room toward her in three steps and grabbed her body, pulling it tight against his sweaty chest, and propelled her back against the whitewashed cement wall, and kissed her, hard and hungry and deep.

**A/N: Yeah, I stopped there. For now. Next one, we get Liv's take on this moment. I wouldn't leave it at JUST this :-)**


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Hey loves! So you liked the last one, didja? Well, I got something here you might like just a little bit more. Shout out to ALL the reviewers and the guest reviewers - I read each and every one I get and they make me so happy and smiley. I may not reply to every single one - I will TRY, I promise - but I appreciate them all. You don't even know. So, because I love reviews, it makes me update like this. THREE IN ONE DAY. WHUT. Enjoy. xoxo**

**Chapter 23**

Olivia had spent the better part of the day on Tuesday going back and forth about whether she should or shouldn't show up at the fight. On the one hand she absolutely understood Paddy's desire to make sure that Tommy was going to be okay afterward, which based on the last go-round, he might not be. On the other hand – things had gotten _so_ intense last night, that she wasn't really sure what he would think if he saw her. Maybe he was mad at her. Maybe he wanted nothing more to do with her. She had heard not a peep from him at all today, and she hadn't been able to summon the courage to contact him herself to check on him. Which, as a therapist who was _supposed_ to be watching out for people, she was sort of obligated to do. _But you didn't. Because you're a coward._

Yeah, she was. Sort of.

Finally, an hour before the fight, she made her decision to go. If Tommy was pissed at her, he could be pissed. That wasn't the focus; the focus was making sure she was there if things went badly for him. She hoped that she could watch from afar, make sure he was good, and then leave. Because he'd be fine. And then they could deal with last night on another day. If he decided to ever come back and see her, that is. Meanwhile, she had emailed over more notes to Carol, including a rundown of how the role-play had gone. Carol had seemed particularly keen on the fact that Olivia had used that tactic, and indicated she was very much looking forward to meeting Tommy when the time was right.

Olivia stood in mirror of her bathroom, studying herself. She was still wearing the same ripped jeans and long, sea-green flowing sheer top she'd had on all day, over a white cropped lace camisole. What did people normally wear to fights? Specifically, what did women wear? Then she felt another enormous burst of annoyance at her own foolishness and grabbed her bag and keys, storming out of the house. She wasn't there to win a beauty contest. She was there to stand by in case someone – someone who'd come to be very important to her – needed her help.

No matter how pissed off at her he might be, her help was always going to be available to him. Olivia glanced down automatically at her arms, where faint bruises had formed from where he'd grabbed, squeezed, and shaken her. She winced; her arms had ached there, but all day there hadn't been visible markings other than a little redness. Now, it seemed, the broken capillaries were settling below the surface of her skin and forming the bruises. She didn't really want to go out in public this way, but if she turned back to change into something with sleeves to cover the marks now she'd just waste time and be late for sure.

_Deal with it,_ she told herself. _Consider it collateral damage for making him dredge up all that horrible shit last night. Way to go. Genius idea. _

Paddy had given her a phone number to text when she was on her way to the club. It wasn't his, it was his son Brendan's, he'd told her. He didn't do what he referred to as "the texting" and thought a phone call right in front of Tommy would be too obvious.

She'd found herself immersed in a traffic jam, as the result of what appeared to be a five-car pileup. She looked at the clock, anxiously tapping her fingers on the wheel. She had exactly twenty minutes to get out of this jam, get across town to the West Track Club, find a place to park, and take an inconspicuous post near the back. She wasn't sure why she was so focused on arriving right at eight o'clock; she only needed to be there long enough to keep an eye on him and then, hopefully, leave. But there was a part of her that wanted to see him in his element, see the hard work she knew for a fact he was putting in pay off. From start to finish.

Mercifully she was pulling into the lot at exactly seven minutes to eight, and briefly sent Brendan a text letting him know she was there. He didn't respond immediately, so she hopped out of the car and locked it and hurried for the entrance. She showed the guard her ID, and he told her that her name had been put onto a "VIP list" by Paddy Conlon and that she could go in, free of charge. Olivia blinked in surprise, thanked him, and hurried inside. She'd have to remember to thank Paddy for his thoughtfulness.

The club was dark except for lights around the cage which was in the center of the room. Olivia searched for an inconspicuous place to stand near the back, just as a popular rap song suddenly blared to life from the speakers. She jumped and stuck her fingers in her ears; the speakers must have been right behind her.

She watched as a young Italian man came dancing out of a set of doors behind and to the right of her, his fists in the air as the crowd, presumably made up of quite a few of his fans, went wild for him. She saw some signs clutched in the hands of girls wearing skimpy cocktail dresses and heels – _so that's what you wear to a fight _– that read stuff like "The Next Mrs. Bonetti" and "Marry me Davey" and "I love you Davey" and one that really made her want to hurl, which read "Davey, let me taste your gravy". _Puke in my mouth. How classy._

But he seemed to eat it up, looking around with a smirk, as he paced around cage, pulling his robe off his back and tossing it to someone below that she assumed was a manager-type. After a few more moments of this, the rap song cut off and the raucous opening strains of a familiar rock song met her ears. It took Olivia a moment to place it, but she recognized it as song from mid-nineties called "Bulls on Parade" by a band called Rage Against the Machine. For a moment, she nodded her head to the beat, thinking back to those times, and thinking she ought to add the song to her iTunes song library, along with some other choice bits from that time period.

Then it dawned on her that the song change meant that the next fighter was on his way out, and that next fighter was none other than Tommy Conlon.

Her stomach exploded with nerves, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she turned to look, seeing a dark hooded figure emerge from the same door as Davey Bonetti. She couldn't see his face, but the walk – the _saunter_ – was all Tommy, no doubt about it. And behind him she recognized Colt, and Paddy, and a tall young man with bright blue eyes that bore a vague resemblance to Tommy that Olivia could only assume was his brother.

There were _lots_ of girls screaming for Tommy. She glanced around, trying to read some of the signs she saw. They read similarly to how Davey's had with a couple being quite forward and blunt – "I want to go home with Tommy Conlon" and "Tommy, I got something you can beat up". She glanced back at him, and he was stripping off his hoodie, completely ignoring the crowd as he handed the sweatshirt to the taller man and hopped into the cage. As Tommy and the other fighter gathered with the ref to go over the rules, and stare each other down menacingly, Olivia felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She pulled it out.

_Thanks for letting me know. Keep your eyes peeled. When it looks like the fight is over follow the hallway back by the concession stands and you'll see the signs for the dressing rooms. Go in, it's unlocked._

_OK. No problem._

She tucked the phone back in her pocket, folded her arms again, and watched. She'd never been into violent sports before, and had never seen any sort of MMA fight. However, she couldn't help admiring Tommy's athleticism and focus. He looked more intense here than when he was sparring with Fenroy at Colt's. He looked so…focused now. So intent on his task.

She gasped when he dodged in and hit the guy so fast he barely had time to register what happened. She had no idea that Tommy was so fast. She studied his face; there was no celebration over his strike, no arrogance, no bragging. Only that keen intent to win.

As the fight progressed, it seemed to Olivia's untrained, inexperienced eye that Tommy was sort of playing with his opponent, like he was trying to draw the fight out. She knew nothing about the skill it took to fight, and yet even she could tell that Tommy could easily overpower and end Davey Bonetti anytime he wanted to. The strikes that Davey was landing seemed to be ones that he was being _allowed_ to land, not because of any real skill that he possessed – none that was superior to Tommy's, anyway. At one point, Olivia gasped again when, after taking a moment to glance back at his father, his brother and Colt, standing below, Tommy's head snapped back when his opponent landed an uppercut.

_Suckerpunch,_ Olivia thought angrily. _He wasn't even looking!_

Tommy didn't seem to be fazed in the least, and continued circling Davey like a hawk tracking prey. For a moment, her eyes locked onto his back, shining with sweat, the muscles bunched taut under his skin, flexing with every move he made and step he took, and she remembered her fantasy of him this way. She forgot she was at the fight for a second as she watched his back move, and came back to earth when she felt a powerful throb deep between her thighs when she stared too long. She couldn't help it, though; watching him this way always had this effect on her. And this was even more intense than being at the gym, where he was just practicing and sometimes just playing around. Here, in this cage with that opponent, and the crowd going crazy for him, and that focused look on his face, it was the real deal. And he was really letting that power of his loose, looking to best his opponent. She wondered how that power would feel if it was channeled in a different way, in an intimate one. She shivered involuntarily. He was dangerous, he was even lethal. He could hurt and break and damage with his bare hands – easily. But to think of him using that strength and power and dominance on, say, _her_ in a way that was meant to not bring pain but ultimate pleasure – it was almost too much to think about.

And suddenly, the fight was over.

She shook herself quickly, realizing she'd hazed out the rest of the fight and seeing that now, Davey Bonetti was laid out on the floor of the cage. His head was lolling from side to side, so he was alive, but he seemed to be refusing to get up. Around him, giving him a wide berth, Tommy paced, keeping his head down and not taking his eyes off of his downed opponent. Finally, the ref stepped forward after leaning over Bonetti and counting to ten and grabbed Tommy's arm, yanking it into the air.

Her pocket buzzed again, and she fumbled to yank her phone out. It was from Brendan. _Go. Now._

Feeling a sudden and foolish burst of panic, Olivia turned on her sandaled heel quickly and hurried out the doors. _He said follow the hallway for the concession stands,_ she thought to herself, hoping she could move fast enough to beat Tommy there. At the end of the hallway, she saw a curtain hanging over a doorway, and was about to give up, feeling like it might be a dead end, when she saw that the curtain slightly obscured a white paper sign. "Dressing rooms" it said, with an arrow.

Olivia glanced over her shoulder, saw that none of the concession workers were paying her any mind, and bolted through the curtains. She entered another doorway and found herself in another long hallway, and hurried past doors, checking the signs on them until she found the one with "Tommy Conlon" written on it. She tried the handle, and sure enough, it was unlocked.

She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. It was small, very much so, with a bathroom off to her left with a toilet and a tiny shower. The room she was in now was a living room of sorts. There were a couple small worn couches right in front of her, with a coffee table separating them, and a TV, and a little refrigerator. There was a vanity and a chair in the corner. Otherwise, it was small, dingy, and smelled very male.

She dropped her purse onto one of the couches and made a slow circuit of the room. There were a couple opened bottles of water sitting out, and there was a neat stack of clothes – jeans and a T-shirt – folded on the vanity. On the floor just below were a pair of nicely maintained Nike Air Jordans. They looked familiar; they were Tommy's.

Nerves fluttered in her stomach again and her heart rate sped up. He was going to be here any second. What would she do? Would she start talking first, right away? If she started talking right away, keeping it calm and cool and letting him know that she was here to make sure he was okay, he might respond well.

_Keep telling yourself that,_ she thought sarcastically.

She slowly walked behind the couches, glancing up at the framed pictures on the wall of celebrities that had come through the West Track Club over the years. She was eyeing some pictures from the fifties with interest, not knowing the place had been around so long, when she suddenly heard voices just outside the door. She whirled around, her previously calmed heart beat skyrocketing again, her palms getting clammy with nerves and her stomach twisting and clenching.

The door opened a little bit, and she saw his hand – the one with the nerve-damaged pinky – come around to grip the edge of it while his body stayed out of sight.

"Colt, deal with that," she heard him say. "I need to go inside, I need a minute to myself. You handle that guy, and make sure he doesn't bother Pop or Brendan. Okay? I don't want my family bothered."

Olivia held perfectly still when a moment later he slipped into the room, his eyes on the floor. He turned his back toward her briefly as he shut and locked the door, and then she heard him take and quietly release a long, deep breath. She heard blood rushing in her ears as her heart thudded swiftly in her chest, so hard she was sure it could be seen from the outside, and then Tommy turned around.

And saw her. And froze.

She meant to start talking, like she'd planned, but she realized she'd forgotten how to speak. He looked absolutely intense standing before her; his brow was lowered, and he was far from smiling. A look of something like angry confusion, or confused anger, flashed briefly across his face.

Then she remembered how to talk, and she started to babble. "I, uh," she started lamely, her voice faltering as his eyes bored into her. "I hope you're not mad," she managed, and her voice trembled. And the word vomit happened as she babbled out something about how Paddy had asked her to come and be here for him in case things resulted in another PTSD episode for him, and she begged him not to be angry. As she rambled, she noticed that Tommy hadn't moved a muscle, although the look in his eyes went from angry confusion to something almost – predatory. But not exactly in a bad way; in fact, the way he was looking at her now made those muscles deep between her thighs throb a little again.

_Oh, help me._

There was nowhere to go. Her back was literally to a wall, one that was about three feet behind her, and Tommy was blocking the escape. She had no idea why she suddenly felt overcome with a primal desire to _flee_. Unless it was all wrapped up in the way that he was staring at her like she was something to eat. That predatory look in his eyes softened ever so slightly around the edges as that same hot, needy look from last night came into them. She felt the air practically crackle between them.

There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. She met his eyes in defeat, if her defeat could be defined as a silent, open, yearning invite.

He was on her in a heartbeat. She barely had time to register him coming toward her, swift and silent like a panther, before his body was pressed against hers – the moist, sweaty, hot wall of his chest hard and solid against her as his arms pulled her in close and tight. And he was still moving, and Olivia's mind whirled rapidly when she felt his sweaty forehead lean in to press against hers, felt strange vertigo as he moved her body for her backward, felt his hot breath on her mouth and on her face and she had no choice but to hold onto him unless she wanted to fall over.

The next thing she registered was her back hitting the cold, whitewashed cement wall that had been three feet behind her a moment ago, hard enough to force the air out of her lungs in a little _oof_. She had a last thought of feeling cold and then feeling wonderful, consuming heat as the warmth from his body closed in around her, registering his arms sliding around her body. And then suddenly his mouth was on hers, hard and needy, but delicious, unexpectedly soft and moist.

Her conscious mind instantly shut off and went lizard. _Sweet hot soft moist more more. _

She'd never felt anything like it. She had spent so much time mesmerized by his mouth, wanting it, wanting this moment, that it felt unreal now that it was happening. Because there was no way that his mouth, his lips, could feel _this_ soft against hers. That they could feel so big and like they were trying to swallow her whole as they took her lips over and over.

And then she felt his tongue, wet and hot and thick and smooth, slide into her mouth, slide against her tongue, and her knees literally buckled. It was too much for her synapses; they started exploding behind her eyes and she felt his arms clutching her even closer, his hard, hot body pressing hers tightly against the wall.

One of his hands slid up to cup the back of her head, the other squeezing her waist. He held her head still and tilted his own until it was practically horizontal, kissing her with all the desperate, needy hunger of a starving man as he pressed her into the wall. When the initial shock of his mouth on hers passed, Olivia could do nothing to control herself as her arms moved of their own accord, slipping over his shoulders and around his neck, gripping his head as she came to life and began to devour his mouth in return.

She heard and felt a deep groan come from the back of his throat when she started to respond to him and he redoubled his efforts, straining against her as his other hand slipped into her hair, grabbing a handful. She didn't care, didn't mind the little tugging pain. All she cared about was tasting more of his mouth, and never stopping.

She became aware of their breathing, how haggard and quiet and heavy it was, and she became aware also of the sound of a little panting moan. At first she thought it was him, but then she realized it was coming from her. Tommy heard it too and she felt a growl resonate deep in his chest in reply. He sucked at her lips, first the bottom and then the top, before using his thumb to coax her mouth open wide to let him slip his tongue back inside. Her lips automatically wrapped around his tongue, wanting and needing to taste him in the worst way, and she felt his hips roll against her, and then she also felt an impressive, unmistakably hard, pronounced bulge press into her hip. He was aroused – for her. He wanted her.

_Wait._

His hands slid down her back, over her waist, and down further, and when she felt his hands graze her backside, her eyes flew open. _Wait. This isn't right._

With a tremendous effort, she placed a hand on his chest and pushed back slightly while she pulled her head in the opposite direction. Their lips let each other go with a little _smack_, and she bit her lip as she looked up into his hazy gray eyes. He was gone on her, the way she was completely gone on him.

"We can't," she whispered. "Tommy, we can't do this. We have to stop."

As if he hadn't heard a word she'd said, his eyes fixated on her mouth as she spoke, and when she was done, he tilted his head and captured her mouth again, with even more fervor this time. She felt his delicious tongue stroke against hers again, and again she couldn't keep a noise of pure desire from emitting from her throat.

_No. Wrong. Stop._

With an even bigger effort than the first time, she pulled her head away and pressed a hand against his chest again. "Tommy. No."

This time his eyes hazed into focus, and he looked confused. "Why?" he whispered.

Her eyes and throat burned as she stared at his mouth. "Because it's _wrong_," she whispered back. "I'm supposed to be helping you, not doing this. This is wrong."

A little frown fell over his face but he made no move to release her. Instead, his hands tightened on her. "It don't feel wrong to me."

"It's not your fault," she told him, her voice shaking. "This was all my fault. I should never have lost control of myself. But, I can't help it – when I'm around you –"

That hot, soft look came back into his eyes her words and he fisted a gentle handful of her hair and claimed her lips again. She could have wept with ecstasy at the closeness, the intimacy of their mouths meeting and releasing and claiming each other, over and over and over.

_You are wrong. Fucking wrong. Stop it!_

She pushed against him, much harder this time, and he took several steps back, his hands finally letting her go, his chest heaving as he silently met her eyes. He didn't look hurt or angry; he looked like he knew she was full of shit, and that she wanted him as bad as he wanted her.

He wanted her. She knew that now. She had felt it pressing into her hip an instant ago, and she could see it on him now as he stood before her unashamedly. And she also knew if she stayed one more second, she would end up back against that wall with very little or no clothing on, and let him have exactly what she wanted so badly – _so_ fucking bad – to give him.

She practically ran past him, leaning over to snatch her purse. "I've got to go, right now," she said tremulously. "Congratulations on the win." She felt the heat of his eyes on her as she hurried toward the door.

Before she could change her mind, she unlocked the door, flung it open, and fled the dressing room as fast as she could manage. When she was back in her car, she dug her phone out with a shaking hand and dialed Carol's number.

"Carol, it's Olivia Ortega," she said in a shaking voice. "I need to transfer Tommy Conlon to you. Immediately."


End file.
